MEMOMAL 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  INNUMERABLE 

COMPANY,  AND  OTHER 

SKETCHES 


BY 

DAVID   STARR   JORDAN 

PRESIDENT  OF  LELAND  STANFORD  JUNIOR  UNIVERSITY 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY  COMPANY 

INCORPORATED) 
1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 

BY 
DAVID  STAKB  JORDAN 


TO  MY  WIFE, 
JESSIE  KNIGHT  JORDAN. 


43G327 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

THIS  volume  is  made  up  of  separate  sketches,  historical  or 
allegorical,  having  in  some  degree  a  bond  of  union  in  the 
idea  of  "  the  higher  sacrifice." 

I  am  under  obligations  to  Professor  William  R.  Dudley 
for  the  use  of  a  photograph  of  a  record  of  Father  Serra.  This 
was  secured  through  the  kindness  of  the  late  Father  Casa 
nova,  of  Monterey. 

PALO  ALTO,  CAL.,  June  1,  1896. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  INNUMERABLE  COMPANY    ...  11 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  PASSION 41 

THE  CALIFORNIA  OF  THE  PADRE 87 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  JUPITER  PEN 135 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PURITANS           175 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  POETS 205 

NATURE-STUDY  AND  MORAL  CULTURE         .       .       .       .245 

THE  HIGHER  SACRIFICE 267 

THE  BUBBLES  OF  SA"KI 291 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

Peter  Rendl  as  Saint  John 59 

Johann  Zwink  as  Judaa 67 

Rosa  Lang  as  Mary 71 

"Ecce  Homo!" 79 

A  Record  of  Junipero  Serra 101 

Mission  of  San  Antonio  de  Padua 115 

Mission  of  San  Antonio  de  Padua  —  Interior  of  Chapel         .        .  121 

Mission  of  San  Antonio  de  Padua— Side  of  Chapel,  with  the  Old 

Pear-trees 133 

The  Great  Saint  Bernard 139 

Hospice  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard 143 

Hospice  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard  — in  Winter    ....  147 

Jupitere  (Great  Saint  Bernard  Dog) 151 

Monks  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard 155 

Saint  Bernard  and  the  Demon 169 

John  Brown 187 

The  John  Brown  Homestead,  North  Elba,  N.  Y 199 

John  Brown's  Grave 203 

Ulrich  Von  Hutten 217 

Ulrich  Zwingli 239 


Men  told  me,  Lord,  it  was  a  vale  of  tears 
Where  Thou  hast  placed  me,  wickedness  and  woe 
My  twain  companions  whereso  I  might  go  ; 
That  I  through  ten  and  threescore  weary  years 
Should  stumble  on  beset  by  pains  and  fears, 
Fierce  conflict  round  me,  passions  hot  within, 
Enjoyment  brief  and  fatal  but  in  sin. 
When  all  was  ended  then  should  I  demand 
Full  compensation  from  thine  austere  hand ; 
For,  His  thy  pleasure,  all  temptation  past, 
To  be  not  just  but  generous  at  last. 

Lord,  here  am  I,  my  threescore  years  and  ten 

All  counted  to  the  full;  I've  fought  thy  fight, 

Crossed  thy  dark  valleys,  scaled  thy  rocks1  harsh  height. 

Borne  all  the  burdens  Thou  dost  lay  on  men 

With  hand  unsparing  threescore  years  and  ten. 

Before  Thee  now  I  make  my  claim,  O  Lord, — 

What  shall  I  pray  Thee  as  a  meet  reward? 

I  ask  for  nothing.    Let  the  balance  fall ! 

All  that  I  am  or  know  or  may  confess 

But  swells  the  weight  of  mine  indebtedness ; 

Burdens  and  sorroivs  stand  transfigured  all; 

Thy  hand's  rude  buffet  turns  to  a  caress, 

For  Love,  with  all  the  rest,  Thou  gavest  me  heret 

And  Love  is  Heaven1  s  very  atmosphere. 

Lo,  I  have  dwelt  with  Thee,  Lord.    Let  me  die. 

I  could  no  more  through  all  eternity. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  INNUMERABLE 
COMPANY. 


THE   STORY    OF    THE    INNUMERABLE 
COMPANY. 

THERE  was  once  a  great  mountain  which  rose 
from  the  shore  of  the  sea,  and  on  its  flanks  it 
bore  a  mighty  forest.  Beyond  the  crest  of  the 
mountain  were  ridges  and  valleys,  peaks  and 
chasms,  springs  and  torrents.  Farther  on  lay 
a  sandy  desert,  which  stretched  its  monotonous 
breadth  to  the  shore  of  a  wide,  swift  river.  What 
lay  beyond  the  river  no  one  knew,  because  its 
shores  were  always  hid  in  azure  mist. 

Year  by  year  there  came  up  from  the  shore  of 
the  sea  an  Innumerable  Company.  Each  one  must 
cross  the  mountain  and  the  forest,  faring  onward 
toward  the  desert  and  the  river.  And  this  was  one 
condition  of  the  journey — that  whosoever  came  to 
the  river  must  breast  its  waters  alone.  Why  this 
was  so,  no  one  could  tell ;  nor  did  any  one  know 
aught  of  the  land  beyond.  For  of  the  multitude 
who  had  crossed  the  river  not  one  had  ever  re 
turned. 

As  time  went  on  there  came  to  be  paths  through 

13 


14  "FHE^  INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

the  forest.'  Those  who  went  first  left  traces  to  serve 
as  guides  for  those  coming  after.  Some  put  marks 
on  the  trees;  some  built  little  cairns  of  stones  to 
show  the  way  they  had  taken  in  going  around  great 
rocks.  Those  who  followed  found  these  marks  and 
added  to  them.  And  many  of  the  travelers  left 
little  charts  which  showed  where  the  cliffs  and 
chasms  were  and  by  what  means  one  could  reach 
the  hidden  springs.  So  in  time  it  came  to  pass 
that  there  was  scarcely  a  tree  on  the  mountain 
which  bore  not  some  traveler's  mark;  there  was 
scarcely  a  rock  that  had  not  a  cairn  of  stones 
upon  it. 

In  early  times  there  was  One  who  came  up  from 
the  sea  and  made  the  journey  over  the  mountain 
and  across  the  desert  by  a  way  so  fair  that  the 
memory  of  it  became  a  part  of  the  story  of  the 
forest.  Men  spoke  to  each  other  of  his  way,  and 
many  wished  to  find  it  out,  that  haply  they  might 
walk  therein.  He,  too,  had  left  a  Chart,  which  those 
who  followed  him  had  carefully  kept,  and  from 
which  they  had  drawn  help  in  many  times  of  need. 

The  way  he  went  was  not  the  shortest  way,  nor 
was  it  the  easiest.  The  ways  that  are  short  and 
easy  lead  not  over  the  mountain.  But  his  was  the 
most  repaying  way.  It  led  by  the  noblest  trees,  the 


THE   MOST   REPAYING    WAY.  15 

fairest  outlooks,  the  sweetest  springs,  the  greenest 
pastures,  and  the  shadow  of  great  rocks  in  the 
desert.  And  the  chart  of  his  way  which  he  left 
was  very  simple  and  very  plain  —  easy  to  under 
stand.  Even  a  child  might  use  it.  And,  indeed, 
there  were  many  children  who  did  so. 

On  this  chart  were  the  chief  landmarks  of  the 
region  —  the  mountain  with  its  forest,  the  desert 
with  its  green  oases,  the  paths  to  the  hidden  springs. 
But  there  were  not  many  details.  The  old  cairns 
were  not  marked  upon  it,  and  when  two  paths  led 
alike  over  the  mountain,  there  was  no  sign  to  show 
that  one  was  to  be  taken  rather  than  the  other. 
Not  much  was  said  as  to  what  food  one  should 
take,  or  what  raiment  one  should  wear,  or  by  what 
means  one  should  defend  himself.  But  there  were 
many  simple  directions  as  to  how  one  should  act 
on  the  road,  and  by  what  signs  he  should  know 
the  right  path.  One  ought  to  look  upward,  and 
not  downward;  to  look  forward,  and  not  backward; 
to  be  always  ready  to  give  a  helping  hand  to  his 
neighbor:  and  whomsoever  one  meets  is  one's 
neighbor,  he  said. 

As  to  the  desert,  one  need  not  dread  it;  nor 
should  one  fear  the  river,  for  the  lands  beyond  it 
were  sweet  and  fair.  Moreover,  one  should  learn 


16  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

to  know  the  forest,  that  he  might  choose  his  course 
wisely.  And  this  knowledge  each  one  should  seek 
for  himself.  For,  as  he  said,  "  If  the  blind  lead  the 
blind,  both  shall  fall  into  the  ditch." 

There  were  many  who  followed  his  way  and  gave 
heed  to  his  precepts.  The  path  seemed  dangerous 
at  times,  especially  at  the  outset;  for  it  lay  along 
dizzy  heights,  through  tangled  underwood,  and 
across  swollen  torrents.  But  after  a  while  all  these 
were  left  behind.  The  way  passed  on  between  cleft 
rocks,  into  green  pastures,  and  by  still  waters ;  and 
in  the  desert  were  sweet  springs  which  gave  forth 
abundantly. 

But  some  who  tried  to  follow  him  said  that  his 
Chart  was  not  explicit  enough.  Every  step  in  the 
journey,  they  contended,  should  be  laid  out  exactly; 
for  to  travel  safely  one  should  never  be  left  in  doubt. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain 
there  was  a  huge  granite  rock,  which  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  way.  Some  of  the  travelers  passed  to 
the  right  of  it,  while  others  turned  to  the  left. 
Strangely  enough,  the  Chart  said  nothing  concern 
ing  this  rock.  No  hint  was  given  as  to  how  one 
should  pass  by  it. 

When  they  came  to  the  rock,  many  of  the  trav 
elers  took  counsel  one  of  another,  and  at  last  a  great 


THE    ONE    TRUE    WAY    TO     THE    EIGHT.        17 

multitude  was  gathered  there.  Which  way  had  he 
taken?  For  in  the  path  he  took  they  must  surely 
go.  Many  scanned  the  rock  on  every  side,  to  find 
if  haply  he  had  left  some  secret  mark  upon  it.  But 
they  found  none ;  or,  rather,  no  one  could  convince 
the  others  that  the  hidden  marks  he  found  were 
intended  for  their  guidance. 

At  nightfall,  after  much  discussion,  the  old  men 
in  the  council  gave  their  decision.  The  safe  way 
led  to  the  right.  So  he  who  kept  the  Chart  marked 
upon  it  the  place  of  the  rock,  and  he  wrote  upon 
the  Chart  that  the  one  true  path  leads  to  the  right. 
Henceforth  each  man  should  know  the  way  he 
must  go. 

Moreover,  those  who  bore  the  records  showed  that 
this  decision  was  justified.  They  wrote  upon  the 
Chart  a  long  argument,  chain  upon  chain  and  rea 
son  upon  reason,  to  prove  that  from  the  beginning 
it  was  decreed  that  by  this  rock  should  the  destiny 
of  man  be  tested. 

But  in  spite  of  argument,  there  were  still  some 
who  chose  the  left-hand  path  because  they  verily 
believed  that  this  was  the  only  right  way.  They, 
too,  justified  their  course  by  arguments,  line  upon 
line  and  precept  upon  precept.  And  each  band 
tried  to  make  its  following  as  large  as  it  could. 


18  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

Some  men  stood  all  day  by  the  side  of  the  rock, 
urging  people  to  come  with  them  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left.  For,  strangely  enough,  although  each  man 
had  his  own  journey  to  make,  and  must  cross  the 
river  at  last  alone,  he  was  eager  that  all  others 
should  go  along  with  him. 

And  as  each  band  grew  larger,  its  members  took 
pride  in  the  growth  of  its  numbers.  In  the  larger 
bands,  trumpets  were  blown,  harps  were  sounded, 
and  banners  were  waved  in  the  wind.  Those  who 
walked  shoulder  to  shoulder  under  waving  flags  to 
the  sound  of  trumpets  felt  secure  and  confident, 
while  those  who  journeyed  alone  seemed  always  to 
walk  with  fear  and  trembling.  It  was  said  in  the 
old  Chart  that  where  two  or  three  were  gathered 
together  on  the  way,  strength  and  courage  would 
be  given  them.  But  men  could  not  believe  this, 
and  few  had  the  heart  to  test  whether  it  were  true 
or  no. 

So  the  bands  went  on  to  the  right  or  to  the  left, 
each  in  its  chosen  path.  But  after  they  had  passed 
the  first  great  rock,  they  came  to  other  rocks  and 
trees  and  places  of  doubt.  Other  councils  were 
held,  and  at  each  step  there  were  some  who  would 
not  abide  by  the  decision  of  the  elders.  So  these 
from  time  to  time  went  their  own  ways.  And  they 


HOW    WISDOM    BROUGHT    UNITY.  19 

made  new  inscriptions  on  the  Chart,  and  erased  the 
old  ones,  each  according  to  his  own  ideas.  And 
there  was  much  pushing  and  jostling  when  the 
bands  separated  themselves  one  from  another. 

At  last  one  of  the  oldest  travelers  in  the  largest 
band  —  a  man  with  a  long  white  beard,  and  wise 
with  the  experience  of  years  —  arose  and  said  that 
not  in  anger,  nor  in  strife,  should  they  journey  on. 
Discord  and  contention  arise  from  difference  of 
opinion.  Let  all  men  but  think  alike,  and  they  will 
walk  in  peace  and  harmony.  Let  each  band  choose 
a  leader.  Let  him  carry  the  Chart,  and  let  him 
night  and  day  pore  over  its  precepts.  No  one  else 
need  distress  himself.  One  had  only  to  keep  step 
on  the  road,  and  to  follow  whithersoever  the  leader 
might  direct. 

So  the  people  chose  a  leader  —  a  man  grave  and 
serious,  wise  in  the  lore  of  the  forest  and  the  desert. 
He  noted  on  the  Chart  each  rock  and  tree,  drawing 
in  sharp  outlines  every  detail  in  the  only  safe  path. 
Moreover,  all  deviating  trails  he  marked  with  the 
symbol  of  danger. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  day  by  day  other  bands 
followed,  and  to  them  the  Chart  was  given  as  he 
had  left  it.  And  these  bands,  too,  chose  leaders, 
whose  part  it  was  to  interpret  the  Chart.  But  each 


20  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

one  of  these  added  to  the  Chart  some  better  way  of 
his  own,  some  short  cut  he  had  found,  or  some  new 
trail  not  marked  with  the  proper  sign  of  warning. 

And  with  all  these  changes  and  additions,  as  time 
went  on,  the  true  way  became  very  hard  to  find. 
At  one  point,  so  the  story  is  told,  there  were  twenty- 
nine  distinct  paths,  leading  in  as  many  directions ; 
each  of  these,  if  the  Chart  be  true,  came  to  its 
end  in  some  frightful  chasm.  With  these  there 
was  a  single  narrow  trail  that  led  to  safety ;  but  no 
two  leaders  could  agree  as  to  which  was  the  right 
trail.  One  thing  only  was  certain:  the  true  way 
was  very  hard  to  find,  and  no  traveler  might  dis 
cover  it  unaided. 

And  some  declared  that  the  Chart  was  compli 
cated  beyond  all  need.  There  was  one  who  said, 
"The  multiplication  of  non-essentials  has  become 
the  bane  of  the  forest."  Even  a  little  meadow 
which  he  had  found,  and  which  he  called  the 
"Saints'  Eest,"  was  so  entangled  in  paths  and 
counterpaths  that  once  out  of  sight  of  it  one  could 
never  find  it  again. 

All  this  time  there  were  many  bands  that  wan 
dered  about  in  circles,  finding  everywhere  cairns  of 
stones,  but  no  way  of  escape.  Still  others  remained 
day  after  day  in  the  shadow  of  great  rocks,  disput- 


IIOW   THE    GREAT  BANDS  MOVED    SLOWLY.     21 

ing  and  doubting  as  to  how  they  should  pass  by 
them.  There  were  arguments  and  precedents 
enough  for  any  course ;  but  arguments  and  prece 
dents  made  no  man  sure. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  most  travelers  followed 
the  band  they  found  nearest.  At  last,  to  join  some 
band  became  their  only  care.  And  they  looked 
with  pity  and  distrust  upon  those  who  traveled 
alone. 

But  the  bands  all  made  their  way  very  slowly. 
No  matter  how  wise  the  leader,  not  all  were  ready 
to  move  at  once,  and  not  all  could  keep  step  to  the 
sound  of  even  the  slowest  trumpet.  There  was 
often  much  ado  at  nightfall  over  the  pitching  of 
the  tents,  and  many  were  crowded  out  into  the 
forest.  At  times  also,  in  the  presence  of  danger, 
fear  spread  through  the  band,  and  many  of 
the  weaker  ones  were  trampled  on  and  sorely 
hurt. 

Then,  too,  as  they  passed  through  the  rocky  de 
nies,  some  of  them  lost  sight  of  the  banners,  and 
then  the  others  would  wait  for  them,  or  perchance 
leave  them  behind,  to  struggle  on  as  best  they 
might  without  chart  or  guide. 

And  there  were  those  who  spoke  in  this  wise: 
"Many  paths  lead  over  the  mountain,  and  sooner 


22  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

or  later  all  come  to  the  desert  and  the  river.  It 
does  not  matter  where  we  walk;  the  question  is, 
How?  We  cannot  know  step  by  step  the  way  he 
went.  Let  us  walk  by  faith,  as  he  walked.  If  our 
spirit  is  like  his,  we  shall  not  lack  for  guidance 
when  we  come  to  the  crossing  of  the  ways."  And 
so  they  fared  on.  But  many  doubted  their  own 
promptings.  "Tell  me,  am  I  right?"  each  one 
asked  of  his  neighbor;  and  his  neighbor  asked  it 
again  of  him.  And  those  who  were  in  doubt  fol 
lowed  those  who  were  sure. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  these  who  walked  by 
faith  likewise  gathered  themselves  into  great  com 
panies,  and  each  company  followed  some  leader. 
Some  of  these  leaders  had  the  gift  of  woodcraft, 
and  saw  clearly  into  the  very  nature  of  things. 
But  some  were  only  headstrong,  and  these  proved 
to  be  but  blind  leaders  of  the  blind. 

Then  one  said,  "  We  must  not  be  filled  with  our 
own  conceit,  but  must  humbly  imitate  him.  We 
must  try  to  work  as  he  worked ;  to  rest  as  he  rested ; 
to  sleep  as  he  slept.  The  deeds  we  do  should  be 
those  he  did,  and  those  only.  For  on  his  Chart  he 
has  told  us,  not  the  way  he  went  past  rocks  and 
trees,  but  the  actions  with  which  his  days  were 
filled."  Then  those  who  tried  to  do  as  he  had  done, 


HOW  EACH  DAY'S  ACTIONS    WERE  FIXED.     23 

moved  by  his  motives  and  acting  through  his  deeds, 
found  the  way  wonderfully  easy.  The  days  and  the 
hours  seemed  all  too  short  for  the  joy  with  which 
they  were  filled. 

But,  again,  there  were  many  who  said  that  his 
directions  were  not  explicit  enough.  The  Chart 
said  so  little.  "  That  we  may  make  no  mistake,'5 
they  said,  "  we  must  gather  ourselves  in  bands  and 
choose  leaders.  We  cannot  act  as  he  acted  unless 
there  is  some  one  to  show  us  how." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  leaders  were  chosen 
who  could  do  everything  that  he  had  done,  in  all 
respects,  according  to  his  method.  And  they  added 
to  the  Chart  the  record  of  their  own  practices  —  not 
only  that  "  He  did  thus  and  so,"  but  also,  "  Thus 
and  so  he  did  not  do."  "  Thus  and  thus  did  he  eat 
bread,  and  thus  only.  Thus  and  thus  did  he  loose 
his  sandals.  In  this  way  only  gave  he  bread  and 
wine.  Here  on  the  way  he  fasted ;  there  he  feasted. 
At  this  turn  of  the  road  he  looked  upward  thus, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  Here  he  anointed 
his  feet;  there  his  face  wore  a  sad  smile.  Such  was 
the  cut  of  his  coat;  of  this  wood  was  his  staff;  of 
such  a  number  of  words  his  prayer."  And  many 
were  comforted  in  the  thought  that  for  every 
turn  in  the  road  there  was  some  definite  thing 


21  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

which  ho  had  done,  and  which  they,  too,  might 
perform. 

Thus  the  duties  of  every  moment  were  fixed. 
But  as  the  days  went  on  these  duties  grew  more 
and  more  difficult.  No  one  had  time  to  look  at  the 
rocks  or  trees ;  no  one  could  cast  his  eyes  over  a 
noble  prospect;  no  one  could  stop  to  rest  by  the 
sweet  fountains  or  in  the  refreshing  shadows.  One 
could  hardly  give  a  moment  to  such  things,  lest  he 
should  overlook  some  needful  service. 

Then  many  lost  heart,  and  said  that  surely  he 
cared  not  for  times  and  observances,  else  he  would 
have  said  more  about  them.  When  he  made  the 
journey,  it  was  his  chief  reproach  that  he  heeded 
not  these  things.  With  him,  ceremony  or  observ 
ance  rose  directly  out  of  the  need  for  it,  each  one  as 
the  need  was  felt.  To  imitate  him  is  to  feel  as  he 
felt.  With  him  feelings  gave  rise  to  word  and 
action.  "  So  will  it  bo  with  us.  It  is  not  for  us  to 
imitate  him  in  the  fashion  of  his  coat  or  the  cut  of 
his  beard.  He  went  over  the  road  giving  help  and 
comfort,  as  the  sun  gives  light  or  the  flowers  shed 
fragrance,  all  unconscious  of  the  good  he  did."  And 
in  this  wise  did  many  imitate  him.  They  turned 
aside  the  boughs  of  the  trees,  that  the  sunshine  of 
heaven  might  fall  upon  their  neighbors.  And 


TILE  ma  JIT  WAY  itY  in  GUT  FEELINGS.      25 

behold,  the  same  sunshine  fell  upon  them  also. 
They  removed  the  stones  from  the  road,  that  others 
might  not  stumble  over  them.  And  others  removed 
the  stones  from  their  way  also. 

But  many  were  still  in  doubt  and  hesitation.  The 
record,  they  said,  was  not  explicit  enough.  They 
counseled  together,  and  gathered  in  bands,  and  chose 
leaders  who  should  tell  them  how  to  feel.  And  the 
leaders  gave  close  heed  to  all  his  feelings  and  to  the 
times  and  seasons  proper  to  each.  Here  ho  was 
joyous,  and  at  a  signal  all  the  band  broke  into 
merry  laughter.  Here  ho  was  stern,  and  the  mul 
titude  set  its  teeth.  There  ho  wept,  and  tears  fell 
like  rain  from  innumerable  eyes. 

As  time  went  on,  repeated  action  made  action 
easy.  The  springs  of  feeling  were  readily  troubled. 
Still  each  one  felt,  or  tried  to  feel,  all  that  he  should 
have  felt.  No  one  dared  admit  to  his  fellows  that 
his  tears  were  a  sham,  his  joy  a  pretense,  his  sad 
ness  a  lie.  But  often,  in  the  bottom  of  their  hearts, 
men  would  confess  with  real  tears  that  they  had 
no  genuine  feeling  there. 

Then  the  people  asked  for  leaders  who  could  bring 
out  real  feelings.  And  there  arose  leaders,  who,  by 
terrible  words,  could  fill  the  hearts  with  fear;  by 
burning  words,  could  stir  the  embers  of  zeal ;  by  the 


26  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY 

intensity  of  their  own  passions,  could  fill  the  throng 
with  pity,  with  sorrow,  or  with  indignation.  And 
the  multitude  hung  on  their  lips ;  for  they  sought 
for  feelings  real  and  not  simulated. 

But  here  again  division  arose;  for  not  all  were 
touched  alike  by  those  who  had  power  over  the 
hearts  of  men.  Some  followed  the  leader  who 
moved  them  to  tears ;  others  chose  him  who  filled 
them  with  fear  and  trembling.  Still  others  loved 
to  linger  in  the  dark  shadow  of  remorse.  Some 
said  that  right  emotions  were  roused  by  loud  and 
ringing  tones.  Some  said  that  the  tones  should  be 
sad  and  sweet. 

Then  there  were  some  who  said  that  feelings  such 
as  all  these  were  idle  and  common.  When  he  trod 
the  way  of  old,  it  was  with  radiant  eyes  and  with 
uplifted  heart.  He  saw  through  the  veil  of  clouds  to 
the  glory  which  lay  beyond.  We  follow  him  best 
when  we  too  are  uplifted.  Now  and  then  on  the 
way  come  to  us  moments  of  exultation,  when  we 
tread  in  his  very  footsteps.  These  are  the  precious 
moments;  then  our  way  is  his  way.  In  the  rosy 
mists  of  morning,  we  may  behold  the  glory  which 
encompassed  him.  In  moments  of  silent  commun 
ion  in  the  forest,  we  may  feel  his  peace  steal  over  us. 
In  the  gentle  rain  that  falls  upon  the  just  and  the 


THE   SHADOW  OF  THE    UPRAISED    STAFF.       27 

unjust,  we  may  know  the  soft  pity  of  his  tears. 
When  the  sun  declines,  its  last  rays  touch  with  gold 
the  far-off  mountain  tops  beyond  the  great  river. 

And  the  uplifting  of  great  moments,  filling  the 
souls  of  men  with  peace  that  passeth  understanding, 
came  to  many.  As  they  went  their  way,  this  peace 
fell  upon  their  neighbors  also.  And  no  man  did 
aught  to  make  them  afraid.  And  others  sought 
to  go  with  these,  and  thus  they  became  a  great 
band. 

So  they  chose  as  their  leaders  those  whose  visions 
were  brightest.  And  they  made  for  themselves  a 
banner  like  the  white  rnist  flung  out  from  the 
mountain-tops  at  the  rising  of  the  sun.  They  spoke 
much  to  each  other  concerning  the  white  banner 
and  the  peace  which  filled  their  souls. 

But  as  they  journeyed  along,  the  dust  of  the  way 
dimmed  the  banner,  and  the  bright  visions  one  by 
one  faded  away.  At  last  they  came  no  more. 

Then  the  people  murmured  and  called  upon  the 
leaders  to  grant  them  some  brighter  vision,  some 
thing  that  all  could  see  and  feel  at  once  —  some 
sign  by  which  they  might  know  that  they  were  still 
in  his  way.  "  Cause  that  a  path  be  opened  through 
the  thicket,"  they  said,  "  and  let  a  white  dove  come 
forth  to  lead  us  on ;  or,  let  the  mists  beyond  the 


28  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

river  part  for  a  moment,  that  we  may  behold  the 
far  country  beyond." 

And  one  of  the  leaders  standing  at  the  head  of 
the  column,  clothed  in  the  morning  light  as  with  a 
garment,  raised  his  staff  high  in  the  air.  The  sun's 
rays  fell  upon  it,  touching  the  morning  mists  with 
gold,  and  threw  across  them  the  long  shadow  of  the 
upraised  staff.  The  shadow  fell  far  out  across  the 
plains,  and  about  it  was  a  halo  of  bright  light.  And 
all  the  band  looked  joyfully  at  the  vision.  Adown 
the  slope  of  the  mountain  and  out  into  the  plain 
they  followed  the  way  of  the  shadow.  And  all  the 
time  the  white  banner  waved  at  the  head  of  the 
column.  The  people  said  little  to  one  another,  but 
that  little  was  a  word  of  praise  and  rejoicing. 

But  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  day  wore  on,  that  the 
sun  rose  in  the  sky,  and  drew  the  mists  up  from  the 
valley.  With  them  vanished  the  long  shadow  of 
the  staff,  and  in  its  place  appeared  the  sandy  plain. 
The  feet  of  the  people  were  sore  with  the  rocks  and 
stones.  The  air  was  thick  with  dust.  Their  hearts 
were  uplifted  no  longer.  Instead  they  were  filled 
with  doubt  and  distress. 

And  the  people  repined  and  murmured  against 
their  leader.  But  the  leader  said  that  all  was  well ; 
even  in  the  way  he  went  there  had  been  stones  and 


TO  SEE  THINGS  AS  THEY  REALLY  ARE.         29 

hindrances.  More  than  once  had  he  carried  a  heavy 
burden  along  a  dusty  road.  But  he  never  doubted 
nor  complained,  and  so  the  radiance  round  about 
him  never  faded  away. 

But  all  the  more  the  people  clamored  for  a  sign. 
Let  the  bright  vision  of  the  morning  appear  to  us 
again.  At  length,  worn  with  much  entreaty,  the 
leader  raised  once  more  his  staff  above  his  head. 
The  sun  at  noon  fell  upon  it.  But  as  the  people 
gazed  they  saw  no  long  line  of  radiance  stretching 
out  across  the  plains  amid  a  halo  of  shining  mist. 
The  shadow  of  the  staff  was  a  little  shapeless  mark 
upon  the  sand  at  their  very  feet. 

Then  the  leader  cast  his  staff  away  and  went  by 
himself  alone,  sad  and  sorrowful.  That  night,  as  he 
lay  by  the  roadside,  he  looked  upward  to  the  clear, 
calm,  honest  stars.  They  seemed  to  say  to  him, 
"  See  all  things  as  they  really  are.  This  was  his 
way.  *  In  spirit  and  in  truth '  means  in  the  light 
of  no  illusion.  Not  all  the  visions  of  mist  or  of 
sunshine  can  make  the  journey  other  than  it  is." 

So  he  came  to  look  closely  at  all  things  on  the 
road.  Day  by  day  he  read  the  lessons  of  the  desert 
and  the  mountain.  He  learned  to  know  directions 
by  the  growth  of  the  trees.  By  the  perfume  of  the 
lilies,  he  sought  out  the  hidden  springs.  By  the  red 


30  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

clouds  at  evening,  he  knew  that  the  sky  would  be 
fair.  By  the  red  light  in  the  morning,  he  was 
warned  of  the  coming  storm.  And  there  were 
many  who  followed  him  and  his  way,  though  he 
did  not  will  it  so. 

And  he  taught  his  companions,  saying:  "We 
must  seek  his  way  in  the  nature  of  the  things  that 
abide.  To  learn  this  nature  of  things  is  the  begin 
ning  of  wisdom.  For  day  unto  day  uttereth  speech, 
and  night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge.  The  way 
of  nature  is  solid,  substantial,  vast,  and  unchang 
ing.  He  who  walks  in  it  stands  secure,  as  in  the 
shadow  of  a  high  tower  or  as  if  encompassed  by  a 
mighty  fortress.  The  wisdom  of  the  forest  shall  be 
granted  to  him  who  seeks  for  it  with  calm  heart  and 
quiet  eye." 

But  among  his  followers  there  were  many  who 
were  eager  and  would  hasten  on,  and  although  they 
spoke  much  of  the  Nature  of  Things  and  of  the  Law 
of  the  Forest,  they  were  contented  with  speaking. 
"  The  road  is  long,"  they  said  to  themselves,  "  and 
the  hours  are  fleeting."  They  had  no  time  to  con 
template  the  glory  of  the  heavens.  The  beauty  of 
the  lilies  fell  on  unobservant  eyes.  For  all  these 
things  they  trusted  to  the  report  of  others.  The 
words  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  losing  ever  a 


IN    SPIRIT    AND    IN    TRUTH.  31 

little  of  their  truth.  And  in  this  wise  the  voice  of 
wisdom  was  turned  to  the  language  of  folly.  For 
the  nature  of  things  is  truth.  But  no  man  can  find 
truth  except  he  seek  it  for  himself.  And  so  they 
fared  on,  each  well  or  ill,  according  to  the  truth  to 
which  his  way  bore  witness. 

Meanwhile  those  who  bore  the  white  banner 
remained  long  in  council.  At  last  one  remembered 
that  it  was  written,  "  Faith  without  works  is  dead, 
being  alone."  And  it  was  written  again,  "  Those 
who  follow  me  in  spirit  must  follow  me  in  truth." 
The  essence  of  truth  lies  not  in  thought  or  feeling, 
but  must  be  expressed  in  deeds.  Right  feelings 
follow  right  actions.  Thus  it  was  with  him;  thus 
will  it  be  with  us. 

Then  they  went  their  way  together,  doing  good 
to  one  another.  And  each  called  his  neighbor 
"  brother  " ;  and  some  bore  cups  of  cold  water,  and 
some  balm  for  healing ;  some  carried  oil  and  wine 
and  pots  of  precious  ointment.  To  whomsoever 
they  met  they  gave  help  and  comfort.  The  hungry 
they  fed.  The  thirsty  were  given  drink.  He  who 
had  fallen  by  the  wayside  was  lifted  up  and 
strengthened,  and  the  blessing  of  cleanliness  was 
brought  to  him  who  lay  in  filth  and  shame.  The 
blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came 


32  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

upon  them,  and  the  heart  of  the  widow  sang  for 

joy- 
But  soon  those  who  were  filled  with  zeal  for  good 
works  were  gathered  together  in  great  bands,  and 
each  band  wished  to  magnify  its  work.  In  every 
way,  to  all  men  who  asked,  help  was  given. 
They  searched  out  the  lame  and  the  blind,  and 
brought  them  that  they  might  perforce  be  healed. 
Cup  after  cup  of  cold  water  was  given  to  the  little 
ones,  even  to  those  who  might  bring  water  for 
themselves.  They  cared  for  the  wounded  wayfarer 
long  after  his  wounds  were  made  whole.  It  was 
their  joy  to  bathe  his  limbs  in  oil  and  wine,  or 
to  swathe  them  in  fragrant  bands.  And  the  way 
farer  ceased  to  bear  his  own  tent  or  to  seek  his 
own  raiment.  What  others  would  do  for  him,  he 
need  not  do  for  himself.  And  those  who  did  not 
help  themselves  lost  the  power  of  self-help.  And 
those  who  had  helped  others  overmuch  came  them 
selves  to  need  the  help  of  others. 

At  last  the  number  of  the  helpless  became  so  great 
that  there  was  no  one  to  serve  them.  Many  waited 
day  after  day  for  the  aid  that  never  came,  and  they 
grew  so  weak  with  waiting  that  they  could  not  take 
up  their  burdens.  The  little  ones  were  thrust  aside 
by  the  strong,  and  as  the  band  went  on  many  of 


GLAD     TIDINGS.  33 

them  were  forgotten  and  left  behind.  They  fainted 
and  fell  by  the  healing  springs,  because  there  was 
no  one  to  give  them  drink,  and  they  could  not  help 
themselves. 

And  the  burden  of  the  way  grew  very  hard  and 
grievous  to  bear.  Then  there  were  those  who  said 
that  one  cannot  help  another  save  by  leading  him 
to  help  himself.  All  that  is  given  him  must  he 
repay.  Sooner  or  later  each  must  bear  his  own 
burden.  Each  must  make  his  own  way  through 
the  forest  in  such  manner  as  he  may. 

So  they  turned  back  to  the  old  Chart.  They  would 
read  his  words  again,  that  they  might  be  led  to 
better  deeds.  In  these  words  they  found  help  and 
cheer.  These  words  spake  they  one  to  another. 
They  came  like  rain  to  a  thirsty  field,  or  as  balm 
to  a  wound,  or  as  good  news  from  a  far  country. 
And  there  was  wonderful  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  for  every  step  of  the  way  he  had  spoken  the 
right  word. 

So  those  who  knew  his  words  best  were  chosen  as 
leaders,  and  great  companies  followed  them.  And 
as  band  after  band  passed  along,  his  message 
sounded  from  one  to  another.  His  words  were 
ever  on  their  lips.  Those  who  could  run  swiftly 
carried  them  far  and  wide,  even  into  the  depths  of 


34  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

the  forest.  To  those  who  were  in  sorrow  they  carne 
as  glad  tidings  of  great  joy,  and  beautiful  upon  the 
mountains  seemed  the  feet  of  those  who  bore  them. 
Wherever  men  were  weary  and  heavy  laden,  they 
were  cheered  by  his  promise  of  rest. 

But  there  were  some  who  turned  to  his  message 
only  to  gratify  sordid  hopes  or  vain  desires.  He 
who  was  lazy  sought  warrant  for  sleep.  He  who 
was  covetous  looked  for  gain.  He  who  was  filled 
with  anger  sought  promise  of  vengeance.  There 
were  many  who  repeated  his  words  for  the  mere 
words'  sake.  And  there  were  some  who  used  them 
in  disputations  about  the  way.  And  the  words  of 
help  on  the  Chart  they  turned  into  words  of  com 
mand.  Each  one  took  these  commands  not  to  him 
self  alone,  but  sought  to  enforce  them  upon  others. 
"  For  it  is  our  duty,"  they  said,  "  to  see  that  no  word 
of  his  shall  be  unheeded  of  any  man."  And  many 
rose  in  resistance.  And  the  conflicts  on  the  way 
were  fierce  and  strong ;  for  with  each  different  band 
there  was  diversity  of  interpretation.  Thus  the 
words  of  kindness  became  the  voice  of  hate. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  all  along  the  way  the 
green  sward  was  red  with  the  blood  of  wayfarers. 
Everywhere  the  leaves  of  the  forest  were  trampled 
by  struggling  hosts.  And  "  In  his  name"  was  the 


BE S  1ST    NOT.  35 

watchword  of  each  warring  band.  And  each  band 
called  itself  "his  army."  And  whosoever  bore  the 
sword  that  was  reddest,  they  called  the  "  Defender 
of  the  Faith."  They  placed  his  name  upon  their 
battle-flags,  and  beneath  it  they  wrote  these  fearful 
words,  "  In  this  sign,  conquer."  And  each  went 
forth  to  conquer  his  neighbor,  and  the  wayfarer 
fled  from  the  sight  of  their  banners  as  from  a  pesti 
lence.  But  "  Conquer,  conquer,"  was  no  word  of  his. 
He  spoke  not  of  victory  over  others;  only  of  conquest 
of  oneself.  He  had  said,  "  Resist  not,  but  overcome 
evil  with  good."  And  till  all  men  ceased  to  resist 
and  ceased  to  conquer,  no  one  found  himself  in  the 
right  way.  Then  some  one  said :  "  By  words  alone 
can  no  one  truly  follow  him.  His  words  without 
his  faith  and  love  are  like  sounding  brass  or  tin 
kling  cymbal.  Out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart 
the  mouth  speaketh.  When  the  heart  is  empty  the 
speech  of  the  mouth  is  idle  as  the  crackling  of 
thorns  beneath  a  pot." 

And  there  appeared  other  bands  from  the  num 
ber  of  those  who  had  passed  to  the  right  of  the  first 
great  rock ;  and  seeing  the  tumult  and  confusion  of 
the  others,  they  said  to  themselves:  "These  are 
they  who  followed  not  us.  We  have  chosen  the 
better  part.  Our  leader  bears  the  only  perfect 


36  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

Chart.  All  other  charts  are  the  invention  of  men. 
In  the  right  Chart  there  can  be  nothing  false;  in 
the  others  there  can  be  nothing  true.  Those  who 
have  not  the  true  Chart  can  never  go  right,  not 
even  for  a  moment.  For  even  good  deeds  done  in 
the  paths  of  evil  must  partake  of  the  nature  of  sin. 
Straight  is  the  way  and  narrow  is  the  gate,  but 
there  is  no  safety  except  ye  walk  therein." 

So  they  went  on,  stumbling  ever  along  the  rocky 
road,  never  resting,  never  murmuring.  "  For  the 
way  at  best  is  a  vale  of  tears,"  said  they,  "  and  no 
one  would  have  it  otherwise.  He  found  it  thus  in 
his  time.  He  was  ever  a  man  of  sorrows  and 
acquainted  with  grief.  More  than  all  others  had 
he  suffered.  It  was  his  glory  to  be  despised  and 
rejected  of  men.  For  the  greater  the  abasement 
the  greater  the  exaltation  in  the  land  beyond  the 
river."  So  day  by  day  they  walked  in  the  hardest 
part  of  the  road.  But  they  spoke  often  together  of 
a  land  of  pure  delight,  of  sweet  fields  beyond  the 
swelling  floods,  and  of  turf  soft  as  velvet  that  rose 
from  the  river's  bank. 

If  perchance  on  the  way  they  came  to  green  pas 
tures,  they  would  hasten  on,  lest  they  should  be 
tempted  to  rest  before  the  day  of  rest  was  come. 
From  sweet  springs  they  turned  aside,  that  theirs 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    SHADOW.  37 

might  be  the  greater  satisfaction  when  they  came 
to  the  sweetest  springs  of  all.  They  shut  their  eyes 
to  beauty  and  their  ears  to  music,  that  the  light 
and  music  of  the  unknown  shore  might  burst  upon 
them  as  a  sudden  revelation.  They  looked  not  at 
the  stars,  lest  perchance  these  should  declare  a 
glory  which  was  reserved  for  other  days.  Dreary 
and  harsh  was  the  way  they  trod.  But  in  its  very 
dreariness  they  found  safety.  They  sought  no 
pleasure,  they  fought  no  battles,  they  wasted  no 
time.  In  the  pushing  aside  of  all  temptation,  the 
scorn  of  all  beauty  and  idleness,  they  found  de 
light.  Against  the  strength  of  granite  rock  they 
set  the  force  of  iron  will.  Withal,  at  the  bottom 
their  hearts  were  light  with  the  certainty  of  coming 
joy.  Even  the  multitude  of  conflicting  paths  gave 
them  a  peculiar  satisfaction ;  for  whatever  way  they 
took  was  always  the  right  way. 

But  there  were  some  among  them  who  lost  all 
heart.  And  they  threw  their  charts  away  and  set 
forth  in  disorder  through  the  forest  and  up  the 
mountain.  Some  of  them  came  safely  to  the  river, 
far  in  advance  of  the  bands  they  had  left  behind. 
But  to  most  the  way  was  strange,  and  harder  than 
of  old.  And  as  the  journey  wore  on  they  began  to 
hate  the  forest  and  all  its  ways. 


38  THE   INNUMERABLE   COMPANY. 

So  they  fared  on,  together  or  apart,  in  ever-deep 
ening  shadow.  They  distrusted  their  neighbors. 
They  despised  the  joyous  bands  who  trooped  after 
their  leaders  with  mouthing  of  verses  and  waving 
of  flags.  They  were  stirred  by  the  sound  of  no 
trumpet.  They  were  deceived  by  no  illusion  of  sun 
shine  or  of  mist.  They  said :  "  We  know  the  forest; 
no  one  knows  it  but  ourselves.  There  is  no  future ; 
there  is  no  way;  there  is  no  rest;  there  is  no  better 
country.  The  azure  mists  are  shadows  only,  hiding 
some  dreary  plain,  if  haply  they  hide  anything  at 
all.  Evil  is  man;  evil  are  all  things  about  him. 
Love  and  joy,  hope  and  faith,  all  these  are  but  flick 
ering  lights  that  lure  him  to  destruction.  Vultures 
croak  on  the  rocks.  The  fountains  flow  with  ink. 
Danger  lurks  in  the  desert.  The  name  of  the  river 
is  Death."  And  when  they  came  to  the  shore  of  the 
river  they  saw  no  rift  in  the  clouds  above  it,  for 
their  eyes  were  filled  with  gloom. 

But  as  time  passed  on,  the  way  of  man  grew 
brighter,  whether  he  would  or  no.  No  day  nor 
hour  was  without  its  joy  to  him  who  opened 
his  heart  to  receive  it.  And  men  saw  that 
most  of  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  way 
were  those  which  they  unwittingly  had  made 
for  themselves  or  for  others.  Thus,  as  the  road 


THE    OLD    CHART.  39 

became  more  secure,  it  no  longer  seemed  dreary 
or  lonely. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  at  last  that  men  ceased  to 
gather  themselves  in  great  bands.  Nor  did  they 
longer  set  store  on  the  sound  of  trumpets  or  the 
waving  of  flags.  The  men  who  were  wisest  ceased 
to  be  leaders  of  hosts.  They  became  teachers  and 
helpers  instead. 

And  with  all  this  a  sure  way  was  from  day  to  day 
not  hard  to  find.  Men  fell  into  it  naturally  and 
unconsciously.  And  the  ways  which  are  safe  are 
innumerable  as  the  multitude  of  those  that  may 
walk  therein. 

And  those  who  had  gone  by  diverse  paths  came 
from  time  to  time  together.  Each  praised  the 
charms  of  the  path  he  had  taken,  but  each  one 
knew  that  in  other  paths  other  men  found  as  great 
delight.  And  as  time  went  on  many  wise  men 
passed  over  the  way,  and  each  in  his  own  fashion 
left  a  record  of  all  that  had  come  to  him. 

But  the  old  Chart  men  kept  in  ever-increasing 
reverence.  They  found  that  its  simple,  honest  words 
were  words  of  truth,  and  whoso  sought  for  truth 
gained  with  it  courage  and  strength.  But  they 
covered  it  no  longer  with  their  own  additions  and 
interpretations.  Nor  did  any  one  insist  that  what 


40  THE    INNUMERABLE    COMPANY. 

he  found  helpful  to  himself  should  be  law  unto 
others.  No  longer  did  men  say  to  one  another, 
"  This  path  have  I  taken ;  this  way  must  thou  go." 
And  some  one  wrote  upon  the  Chart  this  single 
rule  of  the  forest:  "  Choose  thou  thine  own  best 
way,  and  help  thy  neighbor  to  find  that  way  which 
for  him  is  best."  But  this  was  erased  at  last;  for 
beneath  it  they  found  the  older,  plainer  words, 
which  One  in  earlier  times  had  written  there, "  Thy 
neighbor  as  thyself." 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PASSION. 


THE  STORY   OF  THE   PASSION. 

THE  Alps  are  not  confined  to  Switzerland. 
They  fill  that  little  country  full  and  overflow 
in  all  directions,  into  Austria,  Italy,  Germany,  and 
France.  Beautiful  everywhere,  these  mountains 
are  nowhere  more  charming  than  in  Southern  Ba 
varia.  Grass-carpeted  valleys,  lakes  as  blue  as  the 
sky  above  them,  dark  slopes  of  pine  and  fir,  over 
topped  by  crags  of  gray  limestone  dashed  by  per 
petual  snow,  the  Bavarian  Oberland  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  regions  in  all  Europe.  When  Attila 
and  the  Huns  invaded  Germany  fifteen  centuries 
ago,  it  is  said  that  their  cry  was,  "On  to  Bavaria  — 
on  to  Bavaria!  for  there  dwells  the  Lord  God  him 
self!" 

In  the  heart  of  these  mountains,  shut  off  from 
the  highways  of  travel  by  great  walls  of  rock,  lies 
the  valley  of  the  little  river  Ammer.  Its  waters 
are  cold  and  clear,  for  they  flow  from  mountain 
springs,  and  its  willow-shaded  eddies  are  full  of 
trout.  At  first  a  brawling  torrent,  its  current  grows 
more  gentle  as  the  valley  widens  and  the  rocks 

43 


44  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

recede,  and  at  last  the  little  river  flows  quietly  with 
broad  windings  through  meadows  carpeted  with 
flowers.  On  these  meadows,  a  couple  of  miles 
apart,  lie  the  twin  villages  of  the  Ammer  Valley — 
the  one  world-famous,  the  other  unheard  of  beyond 
the  sound  of  its  church-bells  —  Ober  and  Unter 
Amrnergau. 

Long,  straggling,  Swiss-like  towns,  these  villages 
on  the  Ammer  meadows  are.  You  may  find  a  hun 
dred  such  between  Innsbruck  and  Zurich.  Stone 
houses,  plastered  outside  and  painted  white,  stand 
close  together,  each  one  passing  gradually  back 
ward  into  woodshed,  barn,  and  stable.  You  may 
lose  your  way  in  the  narrow,  crooked  streets,  as 
purposeless  in  their  direction  as  the  footsteps  of  the 
cows  who  first  surveyed  them. 

Oberammergau  is  a  cleaner  town  than  most,  with 
a  handsomer  church,  and  a  general  evidence  of 
local  pride  and  modest  prosperity.  Frescoes  on  the 
walls  of  the  houses  here  and  there,  paintings  of 
saints  and  angels,  bear  witness  to  a  love  of  beauty 
and  to  the  prevalence  of  a  religious  spirit.  These 
pictures,  still  bright  after  more  than  a  century's 
wear,  go  back  to  the  time  when  the  peasant  boy, 
Franz  Zwink,  of  Oberammergau,  mixed  paints  for  a 
famous  artist  who  painted  the  interior  of  the  Ettal 


A    WAVE    OF    ART.  45 

Monastery  and  the  village  church.  The  boy  learned 
the  art  as  well  as  the  process,  and  when  his  master 
was  gone,  he  covered  the  walls  of  his  native  town 
with  pictures  such  as  made  men  famous  in  other 
times  and  in  other  lands.  The  spirit  of  the  Italian 
masters  was  his,  and  the  work  of  Zwink  at  Ober- 
ammergau  has  been  called  "a  wandering  wave 
from  the  mighty  sea  of  the  Renaissance  which  has 
broken  on  a  far-off  coast." 

The  Passion  Play  at  Oberammergau  has  been 
characterized  as  a  relic  of  medieval  times — the  last 
remains  of  the  old  Miracle  Play.  This  is  true,  in 
the  sense  of  historical  continuity,  and  in  that  sense 
alone.  The  spirit  of  the  times  has  penetrated  even 
to  this  isolated  valley,  and  its  Passion  Play  is  as 
much  a  product  of  our  century  as  the  poetry  of 
Tennyson.  Miracle  Plays  were  shown  at  Oberam 
mergau  and  in  the  town  about  it  more  than  five 
hundred  years  ago,  but  the  Passion  Play  of  to-day 
is  not  like  them.  The  imps  and  devils  and  all  the 
machinery  of  superstition  are  gone.  Harmony  has 
taken  the  place  of  crudity,  and  the  Christ  of  Ober 
ammergau  is  the  Christ  of  modern  conception.  The 
Miracle  Play,  dead  or  dying  everywhere  else,  has 
lived  and  been  perfected  at  Oberammergau. 
It  has  been  pre-eminently  the  work  of  the  Church 


46  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

of  Rome  to  teach  the  common  people,  and  to  train 
them  to  obedience.  In  its  teaching  it  has  made 
use  of  every  means  which  could  serve  its  purposes. 
Didactic  teaching  is  not  effective  with  tired  and 
sleepy  peasants.  Sermons  soothe,  rather  than 
instruct,  after  a  week  of  hard  labor  in  the  fields. 
Hence  comes  the  need  of  object-teaching,  if  teach 
ing  is  to  be  real. 

Images  have  been  used  in  this  way  in  the  Catho 
lic  Church  —  not  as  objects  to  be  worshiped,  but  as 
representations  of  sacred  things.  Paintings  have 
served  the  same  purpose.  The  noblest  paintings  in 
the  world  have  been  wrought  to  this  end.  It  was  in 
such  lines  alone  that  art  could  find  worthy  recog 
nition.  In  like  manner,  processions  and  "  Passion* 
Plays  "  have  served  the  same  purpose. 

The  old  Miracle  Plays  wrere  grotesque  enough  — 
made  by  common  people  for  the  instruction  of  com 
mon  people.  Even  amid  the  pathos  of  divine  suf 
fering  the  peasants  must  be  amused.  Care  was 
taken  that  the  character  of  Judas  should  meet  this 
demand.  So  Judas  was  made  at  once  a  traitor  and 
a  clown.  His  pathway  was  beset  by  devils  of  the 
most  ridiculous  sort.  And  when  at  last  he  hung 


*  The  word  "passion,"  as  used  in  the  term  "Passionspiel,"  signifies 
anguish  or  sorrow.  The  Passion  Play  is  the  story  of  the  great  anguish. 


DISAPPEARANCE    OF   SATAN.  47 

himself  on  the  stage,  his  body  burst  open,  and  the 
long  links  of  sausages  which  represented  intestines 
were  devoured  by  the  imps  amid  the  laughter  and 
delight  of  the  peasant  audience.  Now  all  this  has 
passed  away.  Wise  and  learned  men  have  taken 
the  play  in  hand,  and  have  left  it  a  monument  to 
their  piety  and  good  taste.  Everything  grotesque, 
or  barbarous,  or  ridiculous  has  been  eliminated. 
All  else  is  subordinated  to  a  faithful  and  artistic 
representation  of  the  life  and  acts  of  Christ.  Stately 
prose  and  the  language  of  the  Gospel  narratives 
have  been  substituted  for  doggerel  verse.  As  a 
work  of  art,  the  Passion  Play  deserves  a  high  place 
in  the  literature  of  Germany. 

One  striking  feature  of  the  Passion  Play  is  the 
absence  of  superstitious  elements.  Beyond  the 
dominating  influence  of  the  purpose  of  God,  which 
is  brought  into  strong  prominence,  there  is  almost 
nothing  which  suggests  the  supernatural  or  mirac 
ulous.  That  little  even  is  forgotten  in  the  intensity 
of  human  interest.  The  Devil  and  his  machina 
tions  have  vanished  entirely.  One  sees  in  the  re 
ligious  customs  of  the  people  of  Oberammergau  few 
of  the  superstitions  common  among  the  peasant 
classes  of  other  parts  of  Europe.  In  his  little  book, 
"  Oberammergau  und  Seine  Bewohner,"  Pastor 


48  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

Daisenberger  says :  "  Superstitious  beliefs  and  cus 
toms  one  does  not  find  here."  Even  the  ordinary 
ghost-stories  and  traditions  of  Germany  are  out 
worn  and  forgotten  in  this  town. 

In  1634,  so  the  tradition  says,  the  black  death 
came  to  Oberammergau,  and  one-tenth  of  the  in 
habitants  died.  The  others  made  a  vow,  "  a  trem 
bling  vow,  breathed  in  a  night  of  tears,"  that  if  God 
should  stay  the  plague,  they  would,  on  every  tenth 
year,  repeat  in  full,  for  the  edification  of  the  people, 
the  Tragedy  of  the  Passion.  Other  communities 
might  build  temples  or  monasteries,  or  could  un 
dertake  pilgrimages;  it  should  be  their  duty  to 
show  "  The  Way  of  the  Cross."  When  this  vow 
was  taken,  the  pestilence  ceased,  and  not  another 
person  perished.  This  was  regarded  by  the  people 
as  a  visible  sign  of  divine  approval.  Thus  every 
tenth  year  for  nearly  three  centuries,  ever  since 
the  time  when  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth 
Rock,  with  varying  fortunes  and  interruptions, 
the  Passion  Play  has  been  represented  in  Oberam 
mergau. 

The  play  in  its  present  form  is  essentially  the 
work  of  Josef  Alois  Daisenberger,  who  was  for 
twenty  years  pastor  of  the  church  at  Oberammer 
gau.  In  this  town  he  was  born  in  the  last  year 


AIM    OF    THE    PASSION    PLAY.  49 

of  the  last  century,  and  there  he  died,  in  1888, 
revered  and  beloved  by  all  who  came  near  him. 

"I  wrote  the  play,"  Pastor  Daisenberger  said, 
"  for  the  love  of  my  Divine  Redeemer,  and  with  no 
other  object  in  view  than  the  edification  of  the 
Christian  world." 

The  first  aim  of  the  Passion  Play  has  been  the 
training  of  the  common  people.  To  its  various 
representations  came  the  peasants  of  Bavaria,  Wiir- 
temberg,  and  the  Tyrol,  on  horses,  on  donkeys,  on 
foot,  a  long  and  difficult  journey  across  mountain- 
walls  and  through  great  forests.  It  was  the  mem 
ory  and  inspiration  of  a  lifetime  to  have  seen  the 
Passion  Play. 

About  forty  years  ago  the  tourist  world  discov 
ered  this  scene;  and  since  then,  on  the  decennial 
year,  an  ever-increasing  interest  has  been  felt,  an 
ever-growing  stream  of  travel  has  been  turned 
toward  the  Animer  Valley.  All,  prince  or  peasant, 
are  treated  alike  by  the  simple,  honest  people,  and 
the  same  preparation  is  made  for  the  reception  of 
all.  The  purpose  of  the  play  should  be  kept  in 
mind  in  any  just  criticism.  To  have  the  right  to 
discuss  it  at  all,  one  must  treat  it  in  a  spirit  of 
sympathy. 

We  came  into  Oberarnmergau  on  Friday,  the  1st 


50  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

day  of  August,  1890,  to  witness  the  performance  of 
the  Sunday  following.  The  city  of  Munich,  seventy 
miles  away,  was  crowded  with  visitors,  all  bound 
to  the  Passion  Play.  The  express-train  of  twenty 
cars  which  carried  us  from  Munich  was  crowded 
with  people  from  almost  every  part  of  the  civilized 
world. 

At  Oberau,  six  miles  from  Oberammergau,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Ettal  Mountain,  we  left  the  railway,  and 
there  took  part  in  a  general  scramble  for  seats  in  the 
carriages.  The  fine  new  road  winds  through  dark 
pine  woods,  climbing  the  hill  in  long  zigzags  above 
wild  chasms,  past  the  old  monastery  of  Ettal,  and 
then  slowly  descends  to  the  soft  Ammer  meadows. 
The  great  peak  of  the  Kofel  is  ever  in  front,  while 
the  main  chain  of  the  Bavarian  Alps  closes  the 
view  behind. 

Arrived  in  the  little  village,  all  was  bustle  and 
confusion.  The  streets  were  full  of  people  —  some 
busy  in  taking  care  of  strangers,  others  sauntering 
idly  about,  as  if  at  a  country  fair.  Young  women, 
in  black  bodices  and  white  sleeves,  welcomed  the 
visitors  at  the  little  inns  or  served  them  in  the 
shops.  Everywhere  were  young  men  in  Tyrolese 
holiday  attire — green  coats,  black  slouch  hats,  with 
a  feather  or  sprig  of  Edelweiss  in  the  hat-band,  and 


THE    PLAY   BEGINS.  51 

with  trousers,  like  those  of  the  Scottish  Highland 
ers,  which  end  hopelessly  beyond  the  reach  of  either 
shoes  or  stockings.  Besides  the  rustics  and  the 
tourists,  one  met  here  and  there  upon  the  streets 
men  whose  grave  demeanor  and  long  black  hair 
resting  on  their  shoulders  proclaimed  them  to  be 
actors  in  the  Passion  Play. 

On  Sunday  morning  we  were  awakened  by  the 
sound  of  a  cannon  planted  at  the  foot  of  the  Kofel, 
a  sharp,  conical,  towering  mountain,  some  two 
thousand  feet  above  the  town,  and  bearing  on  its 
summit  a  tall  gilded  cross.  It  was  cold  and  rainy, 
but  that  made  no  difference  with  the  audience  or 
the  play.  At  eight  o'clock,  when  the  cannon  sounds 
again,  all  are  in  their  places,  and  the  play  begins. 
It  lasts  for  eight  hours — from  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  to  half-past  five  in  the  afternoon,  with  a 
single  interruption  of  an  hour  and  a  half  at  noon. 
The  stage  is  wide  and  ample.  Its  central  part  is 
covered,  but  the  front,  which  represents  the  fields 
and  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  is  in  the  open  air. 
This  feature  lends  the  play  a  special  charm.  On 
the  left,  across  the  stage,  over  which  the  fitful  rain- 
clouds  chase  one  another,  we  can  plainly  see  the 
long,  green  slope  of  Ettal  mountain,  dotted  from 
bottom  to  top  with  herdmen's  huts  or  chalets,  and 


52  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

on  the  summit  a  tall  pine-tree,  standing  out  alone 
above  all  its  brethren.  On  the  other  side  appear 
the  wild  crags  of  the  Kofel,  its  gilded  cross  glisten 
ing  in  the  sunshine  above  the  morning  mists. 
Swallows  fly  in  and  out  among  the  painted  palm- 
trees,  their  twitter  sounding  sharply  above  the 
music  of  the  chorus.  The  little  birds  raise  their 
voices  to  make  themselves  heard  to  each  other. 

As  the  play  progresses  the  intense  truthfulness  of 
the  people  of  Oberammergau  steadily  grows  upon 
us.  For  many  generations  the  best  intellects  and 
noblest  lives  in  the  town  have  been  devoted  to  the 
sole  end  of  giving  a  worthy  picture  of  the  life  and 
acts  of  Christ.  Each  generation  of  actors  has  left 
this  picture  more  noble  than  it  ever  was  before. 
Their  work  has  been  wrought  in  a  spirit  of  serious 
truthfulness,  which  in  itself  places  the  Oberammer 
gau  stage  in  a  class  by  itself,  above  and  beyond  all 
other  theaters.  Everything  is  real,  and  stands  for 
what  it  is.  Kings  and  priests  are  dressed,  not  in 
flimsy  tinsel,  but  in  garments  such  as  real  kings 
and  priests  may  have  worn.  And  so  no  artificial 
light  or  glare  of  fireworks  is  needed  to  make  these 
costumes  effective.  And  this  genuineness  enables 
these  simple  players  to  produce  effects  which  the 
richest  theaters  would  scarcely  dare  to  undertake; 


HOW    OBEEAMMEEGAU   WAS    MADE.  53 

and  all  this  in  the  open  air,  in  glaring  sunshine 
or  in  pouring  rain.  The  players  themselves  can 
scarcely  be  called  actors.  In  their  way,  they 
are  strong  beyond  all  mere  actors,  and  for  this 
reason  —  that  they  do  not  seem  to  act.  From 
childhood  they  have  grown  up  in  the  parts  they 
play.  Childish  voices  learn  the  solemn  music 
of  the  chorus  in  the  schools,  and  childish  forms 
mingle  in  the  triumphal  procession  in  the  regular 
church  festivals.  All  the  effects  of  accumulated 
tradition,  all  the  results  of  years  of  training  tend 
to  make  of  them,  not  actors  at  all,  but  living  figures 
of  the  characters  they  represent.  And  we  can  look 
back  over  the  history  of  Oberamrnergau,  and  see 
how,  through  the  growth  of  this  purpose  of  its  life, 
it  has  come  to  be  unique  among  all  the  towns  of 
Europe. 

Many  have  wondered  that  in  so  small  a  town 
there  should  be  so  many  men  of  striking  person 
ality.  The  reason  for  this  is  to  be  sought  in  the 
operation  of  natural  selection.  In  the  ordinary 
German  village,  the  best  men  find  no  career.  They 
go  from  home  to  the  cities  or  to  foreign  lands,  in 
search  of  the  work  and  influence  not  to  be  secured 
at  home.  The  strongest  go,  and  the  dull  remain. 
All  this  is  reversed  at  Oberammergau.  Only  the 


54  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

native  citizen  takes  part  in  the  play.  Those  who 
are  stupid  or  vicious  are  excluded  from  it.  Not  to 
take  part  in  the  play  is  to  have  no  reason  for  re 
maining  in  Oberammergau.  To  be  chosen  for  an 
important  part  is  the  highest  honor  the  people 
know.  So  the  influences  at  work  retain  the  best 
and  exclude  the  others.  Moreover,  the  leading 
families  of  Oberammergau,  the  families  of  Zwink, 
Lang,  Rendl,  Mayr,  Lechner,  Diemer,  etc.,  are 
closely  related  by  intermarriage.  These  people  are 
all  of  one  blood  —  all  of  one  great  family.  This 
family  is  one  of  actors,  serious,  intelligent,  devoted, 
and  all  these  virtues  are  turned  to  effect  in  their 
acting. 

This  work  is  that  of  a  lifetime.  Little  boys  and 
girls  come  on  the  stage  in  the  arms  of  the  mothers 
—  matrons  of  Jerusalem.  Older  boys  shout  in  the 
rabble  and  become  at  last  Roman  soldiers  or  ser 
vants  of  the  High  Priest.  Still  later,  the  best  of 
them  are  ranged  among  the  Apostles,  and  the  rare 
genius  becomes  Pilate,  John,  Judas,  or  the  Christ. 

In  the  house  of  mine  host,  the  chief  of  the 
money-changers  in  the  temple,  the  eldest  daughter 
was  called  Magdalena.  In  1890,  at  fourteen,  she 
was  leader  of  the  girls  in  the  tableau  of  the  falling 
manna.  In  1900,  she  may,  perhaps,  become  Mary 


THE    CHORUS.  55 

Magdalen,  the  end  in  life  which  her  parents  have 
chosen  for  her. 

After  the  cannon  sounds,  the  chorus  of  guardian 
spirits  (Schutzengeister)  comes  forward  to  make  plain 
by  speech  or  action  the  meaning  of  the  coming 
scenes.  This  chorus  is  modeled  after  the  chorus  in 
the  Greek  plays.  It  is  composed  of  twenty-four 
singers,  the  best  that  Oberammergau  has,  all  pic 
turesquely  clad  in  Greek  costumes, —  white  tunics, 
trimmed  with  gold,  and  over  these  an  outer  mantle 
of  some  deep,  quiet  shade,  the  whole  forming  a 
perfect  harmony  of  soft  Oriental  colors.  Stately 
and  beautiful  the  chorus  is  throughout.  The  time 
which  in  ordinary  theaters  is  devoted  to  the  ar 
ranging  of  scenes  behind  a  blank  curtain  is  here 
filled  by  the  songs  and  recitations  of  the  guardian 
spirits.  Once  in  the  play  the  chorus  appears  in 
black,  in  keeping  with  the  dark  scenes  they  come 
forth  to  foretell.  But  at  the  end  the  bright  robes 
are  resumed,  while  the  play  closes  with  a  burst  of 
triumph  from  their  lips. 

At  the  beginning  of  each  act,  the  leader  of  the 
singers,  the  village  schoolmaster,  comes  forth  from 
the  chorus,  and  the  curtain  parts,  revealing  a 
tableau  illustrative  of  the  coming  scenes.  These 
tableaux,  some  thirty  or  forty  in  number,  are  taken 


56  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

from  scenes  in  the  Old  Testament  which  are  sup 
posed  to  prefigure  acts  in  the  life  of  Christ.  Thus 
the  treachery  of  Judas  is  prefigured  by  the  sale  of 
Joseph  by  his  brethren.  The  farewell  at  Bethany 
has  its  type  in  the  mourning  bride  in  the  Song  of 
Solomon ;  the  Crucifixion,  in  the  brazen  serpent  of 
Moses.  Sometimes  the  connection  between  the  tab 
leaux  and  the  scenes  is  not  easily  traced  ;  but  even 
then  the  pictures  justify  themselves  by  their  own 
beauty.  Often  five  hundred  people  are  brought  on 
the  stage  at  once.  These  range  in  size  from  the 
tall  and  patriarchal  Moses  to  children  of  two  years. 
But,  old  or  young,  there  is  never  a  muscle  or  a  fold 
of  garment  out  of  place.  The  first  tableau  repre 
sents  Adam  and  Eve  driven  from  Eden  by  the  angel 
with  the  flaming  sword.  It  was  not  easy  to  believe 
that  these  figures  were  real.  They  were  as  change 
less  as  wax.  They  did  not  even  wink.  The  critic 
may  notLce  that  the  hands  of  the  women  are  large 
and  brown,  and  the  children's  faces  not  free  from 
sunburn.  But  there  is  no  other  hint  that  these 
exquisite  pictures  are  made  up  from  the  village 
boys  and  girls,  those  who  on  other  days  milk  the 
cows  and  scrub  the  floors  in  the  little  town.  The 
marvelously  varied  costumes  and  the  grouping  of 
these  tableaux  are  the  work  of  the  drawing-teacher, 


"NICHT    EWIG    ZURNET    ER."  57 

Ludwig  Lang.  Without  appearing  anywhere  in  the 
play,  this  gifted  man  makes  himself  everywhere 
felt  in  the  delicacy  of  his  feeling  for  harmonies  of 
color. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  play  the  leader  of  the 
chorus  addresses  the  audience  as  friends  and 
brothers  who  are  present  for  the  same  reason  as  the 
actors  themselves  —  namely,  to  assist  devoutly  at 
the  mystery  to  be  set  forth,  the  story  of  the  redemp 
tion  of  the  world.  The  purpose  is,  as  far  as  may 
be,  to  share  the  sorrows  of  the  Saviour  and  to 
follow  him  step  by  step  on  the  way  of  his  suffer 
ings  to  the  cross  and  sepulcher.  Then  comes  the 
prologue,  solemnly  intoned,  of  which  the  most 
striking  words  are  these : 

"Nicht  ewig  ziirnet  Er 
Ich  will,  so  spricht  der  Herr, 
Den  Tod  des  Sunders  nicht." 

41  He  will  not  be  angry  forever.  I,  saith  the  Lord, 
will  not  the  death  of  the  sinner.  I  will  forgive 
him ;  he  shall  live,  and  in  my  Son's  blood  shall 
be  reconciled." 

When  its  part  is  finished  the  chorus  retires,  and 
the  Passion  Play  begins  with  the  entry  of  Christ 
into  Jerusalem.  Far  in  the  distance  we  hear  the 
music,  "  Hail  to  thee,  0  David's  son ! "  Then  fol- 


58  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

lows  a  seemingly  endless  procession  of  men,  women, 
and  children  who  wave  palm-leaves  and  shout 
hosannas.  One  little  flaxen-haired  girl,  dressed  in 
blue,  and  carrying  a  long,  slender  palm-leaf,  is 
especially  striking  in  her  beauty  and  naturalness. 

At  last  He  comes,  riding  sidewise  upon  a  beast 
that  seems  too  small  for  his  great  stature.  He  is 
dressed  in  a  purple  robe,  over  which  is  a  mantle 
of  rich  crimson.  Beside  him,  in  red  and  olive- 
green,  is  the  girlish-looking  youth,  Peter  Kendl, 
who  takes  the  part  of  Saint  John.  Behind  him 
follow  his  disciples,  each  with  the  pilgrim's  staff. 
Two  of  these  are  more  conspicuous  than  the  others. 
One  is  a  white-haired,  eager  old  man,  wearing  a 
mantle  of  olive-green.  The  other,  younger,  dark, 
sullen,  and  tangle-haired,  dressed  in  a  robe  of  saf 
fron  over  dull  yellow,  is  the  only  person  in  the 
throng  out  of  harmony  with  the  prevailing  joy- 
ousness. 

Followed  by  the  people,  who  stand  apart  in  rev 
erence  as  he  passes  among  them,  Christ  approaches 
the  temple.  His  face  is  pale,  in  marked  contrast  to 
his  abundant  black  hair.  His  expression  is  serious, 
or  even  care-worn,  less  mild  than  in  the  usual  pic 
tures  of  Jesus,  but  certainly  in  keeping  with  the 
scenes  of  the  Passion  Play.  A  fine,  strong,  mas- 


PETER    RENDL    AS    SAINT   JOHN. 


"CHRI8TU8"  MAYR.  61 

terful  man  of  great  stature  and  immense  physical 
strength  is  the  wood-carver,  Josef  Mayr,  who  now 
for  three  successive  decades  has  taken  this  part.  A 
man  of  attractive  presence  and  lofty  bearing,  one 
whom  every  eye  follows  as  he  goes  about  the  town 
on  the  round  of  his  daily  duties,  yet  simple-hearted 
and  modest,  as  becomes  one  who  takes  on  himself 
not  only  the  dress  but  the  name  and  figure  of  the 
Saviour. 

Essays  have  been  written  on  "  Christus  "  Mayr 
and  his  conception  of  Jesus,  and  I  can  only  assent 
to  the  general  impression.  To  me  it  seems  that 
Mayr's  thought  of  Christ  is  one  which  all  must 
accept.  He  appears  as  "  one  driven  by  the  Spirit," 
—  the  great  mild  teacher,  the  man  who  can  afford 
to  be  silent  before  kings  and  before  mobs,  and  to 
whom  the  pains  of  Calvary  are  not  more  deep  than 
the  sorrows  of  Gethsemane,  the  man  who  comes  to 
do  the  work  of  his  Father,  regardless  alike  of 
human  praise  or  of  human  contempt.  The  great 
strength  of  the  presentation  is  that  it  brings  to  the 
front  the  essentials  of  Christ's  life  and  death.  There 
is  no  suggestion  of  theological  subtleties  nor  of  the 
ceremonies  of  any  church.  It  is  simply  true  and 
terrible. 

From  one  of  his  fellow-actors,  I  learned  this  of 


62  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

Josef  Mayr.  He  has  always  been  what  he  is  now,  a 
hand-worker  ("gemeiner  Arbeiter")  in  Oberammer- 
gau.  He  has  never  been  away  from  his  native 
town  except  once,  when  he  went  as  a  workman  to 
Vienna,  and  once  when,  in  1870,  the  play  was  inter 
rupted  by  the  war  with  France,  and  Mayr  himself 
was  taken  into  the  army.  Out  of  respect  to  his  art, 
he  was  never  sent  to  the  front,  but  kept  in  the  gar 
rison  at  Munich.  When  the  war  was  over,  and  he 
came  back,  in  1871,  the  grateful  villagers  resumed 
the  play  as  their  "best  method  of  thanking  God 
who  had  given  them  the  blessings  of  victory  and 
peace." 

Canon  Farrar,  of  Westminster,  has  given  us  the 
best  and  most  sympathetic  account  yet  published  of 
the  various  actors.  Of  Mayr  he  said :  "  It  is  no  small 
testimony  to  the  goodness  and  the  ability  of  Josef 
Mayr  that  in  his  representation  of  Christ  he  does 
not  offend  us  by  a  single  word  or  a  single  gesture. 
If  there  were  in  his  manner  the  slightest  touch  of 
affectation  or  of  self-consciousness;  if  there  were  the 
remotest  suspicion  of  a  strut  in  his  gait,  we  should  be 
compelled  to  turn  aside  in  disgust.  As  it  is,  we  for 
get  the  artist  altogether.  For  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
Josef  Mayr  forgets  himself,  and  wishes  only  to  give 
a  faithful  picture  of  the  events  in  the  Gospel  story." 


CLEARING    THE    TEMPLE.  63 

As  the  Master  enters  the  temple,  he  finds  that  its 
courts  are  filled  with  a  noisy  throng  of  money 
changers,  peddlers,  and  dealers  in  animals  for  sac 
rifice.  He  is  filled  with  wrath  and  indignation. 
In  a  commanding  tone,  he  orders  them  to  take 
their  own  and  leave  this  holy  place.  "There  is 
room  enough  for  trading  outside.  '  My  house,' 
thus  saith  the  Lord,  'shall  be  a  house  of  prayer  to 
all  the  people.'  Ye  have  made  it  a  den  of  thieves." 
("Zur  Rauberhohle,  habt  HIT  es  gemacht!"} 

The  peddlers  pay  no  attention  to  his  protest. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  wrath,  he  breaks  upon 
them,  overturning  their  tables,  scattering  their  gold 
upon  the  floor,  and  beating  them  with  thongs. 
The  animals  kept  for  sacrifice  are  released.  The 
sheep  scamper  backward  to  the  rear  of  the  stage, 
and  escape  through  the  open  door.  The  white 
doves  fly  out  over  the  heads  of  the  spectators,  and 
are  lost  against  the  green  slopes  of  the  Kofel. 

The  play  now  follows  the  Gospel  narrative  very 
closely.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  Gospel  story,  with  only 
such  changes  as  fit  it  for  continuous  presentation. 
Events  aside  from  the  current  of  the  story,  such  as 
the  wedding  at  Cana  and  the  raising  of  Lazarus, 
are  omitted.  There  are  few  long  speeches.  The 
leading  features  of  what  may  be  called  the  plot,  the 


64  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

wrath  of  the  money-changers,  the  fierce  hatred  of 
the  Pharisees,  the  avarice  of  Judas,  which  makes 
him  their  tool,  are  all  sharply  emphasized. 

The  next  scene  introduces  us  to  the  High  Coun 
cil  of  the  Jews,  and  to  its  leading  spirit,  Caiaphas. 
Caiaphas  is  represented  by  the  burgomaster  of  the 
village,  Johann  Lang.  "  No  medieval  pope,"  says 
Canon  Farrar,  "  could  pronounce  his  sentences  with 
more  dignity  and  verve.  He  is  what  has  been 
called  'that  terrible  creature,  the  perfect  priest.'" 
Violent,  unforgiving,  and  harsh,  he  is  the  soul  of 
the  conspiracy.  His  strong  determination  is  reflect 
ed  in  the  weak  malignity  of  his  colleague,  Annas, 
as  well  as  in  the  priests  and  scribes.  "While  he 
lives,"  Caiaphas  says,  "  there  is  no  peace  for  Israel. 
It  is  better  that  one  man  should  die,  that  the  whole 
nation  perish  not." 

We  next  behold  Jesus  accompanied  by  his  dis 
ciples  on  the  road  toward  the  house  of  Simon  of 
Bethany.  As  they  walk  along,  he  talks  sadly  of  his 
approaching  death.  None  of  them  can  understand 
his  words ;  for  to  them  he  has  been  victorious  over 
all  his  enemies.  "A  word  from  thee,"  says  Peter, 
"  and  they  are  crushed."  "  I  see  not,"  says  Thomas, 
"  why  thou  speakest  so  often  of  sorrow  and  death. 
Do  we  not  read  in  the  prophets  that  Christ  lives 


JUDAS    AND    THE    POT    OF    OINTMENT.         65 

forever?  Thou  canst  not  die,  for  with  thy  power 
thou  wakest  even  the  dead."  Even  John  declares 
that  Christ's  words  are  dark  and  dismal,  while  he 
and  his  associates  use  every  effort  to  cheer  the 
Master. 

At  the  house  of  Simon  of  Bethany,  Mary  Mag 
dalen  breaks  the  costly  dish  of  ointment.  Judas, 
who  carries  the  slender  purse  of  the  disciples,  is 
vexed  at  the  waste,  and  talks  of  all  the  good  the 
value  of  this  ointment  might  have  done  if  given  to 
the  poor. 

Very  carefully  worked  out  is  the  character  of 
Judas,  represented  by  Johann  Zwink,  the  miller  of 
Oberammergau,  who  ten  years  ago  took  the  part  of 
Saint  John.  The  people  of  Oberammergau  regard 
Zwink  as  the  most  gifted  of  all  their  actors ;  for  he 
can,  they  say,  play  any  part.  (" Er  spielt  alle Rolle"} 
Gregor  Lechner,  who  in  his  younger  days  had  the 
part  of  Judas,  is  now  Simon  of  Bethany.  Of  all 
the  actors  of  Oberammergau,  the  people  told  us, 
Lechner  is  the  most  beloved  ("  bestens  beliebt "). 

In  Zwink's  conception,  Judas  is  a  man  full  of 
ambition,  but  without  enthusiasm.  He  is  attracted 
by  the  power  of  Christ,  from  which  he  expects 
great  results.  But  Christ  seems  to  care  little  for 
his  own  mighty  works.  "  My  mission,"  he  says,  "is 


66  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

not  to  command,  but  to  serve."  So  Judas  becomes 
impatient  and  dissatisfied.  The  eager  enthusiasm 
of  Peter  and  the  tender  devotion  of  John  alike 
bore  and  disgust  him.  So  the  emissaries  of  Caia- 
phas  find  him  half-prepared  for  their  mission.  He 
admits  that  he  has  made  a  mistake  in  joining  his 
fortunes  to  those  of  an  unpractical  and  sorrowful 
prophet  who  lets  great  opportunities  slip  from  his 
grasp,  and  who  wastes  a  fortune  in  precious  oint 
ment  with  no  more  thought  than  if  it  had  been 
water.  "  There  has  of  late  been  a  coolness  between 
him  and  me,"  he  confesses.  "  I  am  tired,"  he  says, 
"  of  hoping  and  waiting,  with  nothing  before  me 
except  poverty,  humiliation,  perhaps  even  torture 
and  the  prison."  He  is  especially  ill  at  ease  when 
the  Master  speaks  of  his  approaching  death.  "If 
thou  givest  up  thy  life,"  he  says, "  what  will  become 
of  us?  "  And  so  Judas  reasons  with  himself  that  he 
can  afford  to  be  prudent.  If  his  Master  fail,  then 
he  must  be  a  false  prophet,  and  there  is  no  use  in 
following  him.  If  he  succeed,  as  with  his  mighty 
power  he  can  hardly  fail  to  do,  then,  says  Judas, 
"  I  will  throw  myself  at  his  feet.  He  is  such  a  good 
man ;  never  have  I  seen  him  cast  a  penitent  away. 
But  I  fear  to  face  the  Master.  His  sharp  look  goes 
through  and  through  me.  Still  at  the  most  I  shall 


JOHANN    ZVVIXK    AS   JUDAS. 


THE    MADONNA.  69 

only  tell  the  priests  where  my  Master  is."  And  thus 
the  good  and  bad  impulses  struggle  for  the  mas 
tery,  giving  to  this  character  the  greatest  tragic 
interest.  He  visibly  shrinks  before  the  words  of 
Christ,  "  One  of  you  shall  betray  me."  In  the  High 
Council  he  cringes  under  the  scorching  reproach 
of  Nicodemus.  "  Dost  thou  not  blush,"  Nicodemus 
says,  "  to  sell  thy  Lord  and  Master?  This  blood- 
money  calls  to  heaven  for  revenge.  Some  day  it 
will  burn  hot  in  thine  avarice-sunken  soul." 

But  the  High  Priest  says,  "  Come,  Judas,  take 
the  silver,  and  be  a  man."  And  when  the  thirty 
pieces  are  counted  out  to  him,  he  cannot  resist  the 
temptation,  but  clutches  them  with  a  miser's  grasp 
and  hurries  off  to  intercept  the  Master  on  his  way 
through  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane.  Meanwhile, 
after  a  tender  farewell  from  his  mother,  Christ 
leaves  the  house  of  Simon  of  Bethany,  and,  with 
his  disciples,  takes  the  road  to  Jerusalem. 

The  part  of  Mary  the  mother  of  Christ  is  admir 
ably  taken  by  Rosa  Lang.  In.  dress  and  mien,  she 
seems  to  have  stepped  down  from  some  picture- 
frame  of  Raphael  or  Murillo.  The  Mary  of  Rosa 
Lang  is  in  every  respect  a  worthy  companion  of 
Mayr's  Christus. 

The  various  scenes  in  which  the  Apostles  appear 


70  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

are  modeled  more  or  less  after  the  great  religious 
paintings,  especially  those  of  the  Bavarian  artist, 
Albrecht  Diirer.  The  Last  Supper  is  a  living  rep 
resentation  of  the  famous  painting  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  in  the  refectory  at  Milan.  Peter  and  Judas 
are  here  brought  into  sharp  contrast.  Next  to 
Christ,  is  the  slender  figure  of  the  beloved  disci 
ple.  The  characters  of  the  different  Apostles  are 
placed  in  bold  relief.  We  are  at  once  interested 
in  the  fine  face  of  Andreas  Lang,  the  Apostle 
Thomas,  critical  and  questioning,  but  altogether 
loyal.  The  Apostle  Philip  looks  for  signs  and 
visions,  and  would  see  the  Father  coming  in  His 
glory  from  the  skies,  not  in  the  common  every-day 
scenes  of  life  into  which  the  Master  led  them. 
"  Have  I  been  so  long  time  with  thee,  and  yet  hast 
thou  not  known  me,  Philip?  " 

Next  comes  the  night  scene  in  the  Garden  of 
Gethsemane  on  the  Mount  of  Olives.  The  tired 
Apostles  rest  upon  the  grassy  bank,  and  one  by  one 
they  fall  asleep.  Even  Peter,  who  is  nearest  the 
Master,  can  keep  awake  no  longer.  Christ  kneels 
upon  the  rocks  above  the  sleeping  Peter.  "0 
Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me." 
He  looks  back  to  his  disciples.  "  Are  your  eyes  so 
heavy  that  ye  cannot  watch  ?  The  weight  of  God's 


ROSA    LANG    AS    MARY. 


THE    DENIAL    OF   PETER.  73 

justice  lies  upon  me.  The  sins  of  the  fallen  world 
weigh  me  down.  0  Father,  if  it  is  not  possible  that 
this  hour  go  by,  then  may  thy  holy  will  be  done." 

Suddenly  a  great  tumult  is  heard.  The  faint 
light  of  the  morning  is  reflected  from  the  clanging 
armor  and  from  glittering  spears.  The  Apostles 
are  rudely  awakened.  Judas  comes  forth  and 
greets  the  Master  with  a  kiss.  At  this  signal,  the 
Master  is  seized  by  the  soldiers  and  roughly  bound. 
Then  he  is  carried  away,  first  to  Annas,  and  after 
wards  to  the  house  of  Caiaphas. 

Of  the  scenes  that  immediately  follow,  the  most 
striking  is  that  of  the  denial  of  Peter.  Peter,  as 
represented  by  the  sexton  of  the  church,  Jacob  Hitt, 
is  an  old  man  with  a  young  heart,  eager  and  im 
pulsive.  He  dreams  of  the  noble  part  he  will  take 
while  standing  by  the  Master's  side  before  kings 
and  priests,  but  behaves  very  humanly  when  he  is 
brought  face  to  face  with  an  unexpected  test. 

The  scenes  of  the  night  have  crowded  thick  and 
fast.  The  Apostles  have  been  scattered  by  the  sol 
diers.  The  Master  had  been  bound,  and  carried 
away  they  know  not  whither.  Peter  had  tried  to 
defend  him,  but  was  told  to  "  put  away  his  useless 
sword."  In  forlorn  agony  Peter  and  John  wander 
about  in  the  dark,  seeking  news  of  Jesus.  They 


74  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

meet  a  servant  who  tells  them  that  he  has  been  car 
ried  before  the  High  Priest,  and  that  the  whole 
brood  of  his  followers  is  to  be  rooted  out. 

Near  the  house  of  the  High  Priest  Annas  we  see 
a  sort  of  inn  occupied  by  rough  soldiers.  The  night 
is  damp  and  cold.  A  maid  has  kindled  a  fire  in  the 
courtyard,  and  Peter  approaches  it  to  warm  his 
hands,  and,  if  possible,  to  gain  some  further  news 
of  the  Master.  He  hears  the  soldiers  talking  of 
Malchus,  one  of  their  number  who  had  had  his  ear 
cut  off.  They  boast  of  what  they  will  do  with  the 
culprit,  if  he  should  ever  fall  into  their  power.  "An 
ear  for  an  ear,"  he  hears  them  say.  Suddenly  the 
maid  turns  towards  Peter  and  says,  "Yes,  you, 
surely  you  were  with  the  Nazarene  Jesus."  Peter 
hestitates.  Should  he  confess,  he  would  have  his 
own  ears  cut  off,  an  ear  for  an  ear — and  most  likely 
his  head,  too,  while  his  body  would  be  thrown  out 
on  the  rubbish  heap  behind  the  inn.  Peter  had 
said  that  he  would  die  for  the  Master ;  and  so  he 
would  on  the  field  of  battle,  or  in  any  way  where 
he  might  have  a  glorious  death.  He  would  die  for 
the  Master,  but  not  then  and  there.  The  death  of 
a  martyr  has  its  pleasures,  no  doubt,  but  not  the 
death  of  a  dog. 

"While  Peter  stood  thus  considering  these  matters, 


THE    FIELD    OF   BLOOD.  75 

one  and  then  another  of  the  servants  insisted  that 
he  had  surely  been  seen  with  the  Nazarene  Jesus. 
Again  and  again  Peter  refused  all  knowledge  of  the 
Master.  When  the  cock  crew  once  more  he  had 
denied  his  Master  thrice.  While  Peter  still  insisted, 
the  door  opened  and  the  Master  came  forth  under 
the  High  Priest's  sentence  of  death.  "And  the 
Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter,  and  Peter  went 
out  and  wept  bitterly."  "  Oh,  Master,"  he  says  in 
the  play : 

"  Oh,  Master,  how  have  I  fallen ! 
I  have  denied  thee,  how  can  it  be  possible? 
Three  times  denied  thee !    Oh,  thou  knowest,  Lord, 
I  was  resolved  to  follow  thee  to  death." 

Meanwhile  Judas  hears  the  story  of  what  has 
happened.  He  is  at  once  filled  with  agony  and 
remorse,  for  he  had  not  expected  it.  He  was  sure 
that  the  great  power  of  the  Master  would  bring 
him  through  safely  at  last.  In  helpless  agony,  he 
rushes  before  the  Council  and  makes  an  ineffective 
protest.  "  No  peace  for  me  forevermore ;  no  peace 
for  you,"  he  says.  "The  blood  of  the  innocent 
cries  aloud  for  justice."  He  is  repulsed  with  cold 
indifference.  Will  it  or  not,"  says  the  High  Priest, 
"  he  must  die,  and  it  would  be  well  for  thee  to  look 
out  for  thyself." 


76  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

In  fury  he  cries  out,  "If  he  dies,  then  am  I  a 
traitor.  May  ten  thousand  devils  tear  me  in 
pieces!  Here,  ye  bloodhounds,  take  back  your 
curse ! "  And  flinging  the  blood-money  at  the  feet 
of  the  priests,  he  flies  from  their  presence,  pursued 
by  the  specter  of  his  crime. 

The  next  scene  shows  us  the  field  of  blood  —  a 
wind-swept  desert,  with  one  forlorn  tree  in  the 
foreground.  "We  see  the  wretched  Judas  before  the 
tree.  He  tears  off  his  girdle,  "  a  snake,"  he  calls  it, 
and  places  it  about  his  neck,  snapping  off  a  branch 
of  the  tree  in  his  haste  to  fasten  it.  "  Here,  accursed 
life,  I  end  thee;  let  the  most  miserable  of  all  fruit 
hang  upon  this  tree."  In  the  action  we  feel  that 
Judas  is  not  so  much  wicked  as  weak.  He  has 
little  faith  and  little  imagination,  and  his  folly 
of  avarice  hurries  him  into  betrayal.  Those  who 
see  the  play  feel  as  the  actors  feel,  that  Christ  knows 
the  weakness  of  man.  He  would  have  forgiven 
Judas,  just  as  he  forgave  Peter. 

In  the  early  morning  Christ  is  brought  before 
Pontius  Pilate.  The  Roman  governor,  admirably 
represented  by  Thomas  Rendl,  appears  in  the  bal 
cony  and  talks  down  to  Caiaphas,  who  sends  up  his 
accusations  from  the  street  below.  His  clear  sense 
of  justice  makes  Pilate  at  first  more  than  a  match 


PILATE   AND    HEROD.  77 

for  the  conspirators.  With  magnificent  scorn  he 
tells  Caiaphas  that  he  is  "  astounded  at  his  sudden 
zeal  for  Csesar."  Of  Christ  he  says :  "  He  seems  to 
me  a  wise  man  —  so  wise  that  these  dark  men  can 
not  bear  the  light  from  his  wisdom."  Learning 
that  Jesus  is  from  Galilee,  he  throws  the  whole 
matter  into  the  hands  of  Herod,  the  governor  of 
that  province. 

The  words  of  Pilate  are  very  finely  spoken. 
"We  marvel,"  says  one  writer,  "how  the  peasant 
Eendl  learned  to  bear  himself  so  nobly  or  to  utter 
the  famous  question,  'What  is  truth?'  with  a  cer 
tain  dreamy  inward  expression  and  tone,  as  though 
outward  circumstances  had  for  the  instant  vanished 
from  his  mind,  and  he  were  alone  with  his  own 
soul  and  the  flood  of  thought  raised  by  the  words 
of  Jesus." 

In  contrast  to  Pilate,  stands  Herod,  lazy  and 
voluptuous.  He,  too,  finds  nothing  of  evil  in  Jesus, 
whom  he  supposes  to  be  a  clever  magician.  "  Cause 
that  this  hall  may  become  dark,"  he  says,  "or  that 
this  roll  of  paper,  which  is  thy  sentence  of  death, 
shall  become  a  serpent."  He  receives  Christ  in 
good-natured  expectancy,  which  changes  to  disgust 
when  he  answers  him  not  a  word.  Herod  pro 
nounces  him  "dumb  as  a  fish,"  and,  after  clothing 


78  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

him  in  a  splendid  purple  mantle,  he  sends  him 
away  unharmed,  with  the  title  of  "  King  of  Fools." 

Again  Christ  is  brought  before  Pilate,  who  tells 
Caiaphas  plainly  that  his  accusations  mean  only 
his  own  personal  hatred,  and  that  the  voice  of 
the  people  is  but  the  senseless  clamor  of  the  mob 
set  in  operation  by  intrigue.  Pilate  orders  Jesus 
to  be  scourged,  in  the  hope  that  the  sight  of  his 
noble  bearing  amid  unmerited  cruelties  may  soften 
the  hearts  of  the  people.  Nowhere  does  the  noble 
figure  of  Mayr  appear  to  better  advantage  than 
in  this  scene,  where,  after  a  brutal  chastisement, 
scarcely  lessened  in  the  presentation  on  the  stage, 
the  Roman  soldiers  place  a  cattail  flag  in  his  hand 
and  salute  him  as  a  king. 

Pilate  then  brings  forth  an  abandoned  wreck  of 
humanity,  old  Barabbas,  the  murderer.  As  Christ 
stands  before  them,  blood-stained  and  crowned  with 
thorns,  half  in  hope  and  half  in  irony,  Pilate  invites 
them  to  choose.  "Behold  the  man,"  he  said,  "a 
wise  teacher  whom  ye  have  long  honored,  guilty 
of  no  evil  deed.  Jesus  or  Barabbas,  which  will  ye 
choose?" 

All  the  more  fiercely  the  mob  cries, "  Crucify  him ! 
Crucify  him!" 

Pilate  is  puzzled.     "  I  cannot  understand  these 


"ECCE     HOMO!' 


"FOR  LOVE  OF  THEE,  I  BEAR  THY  CROSS."    81 

people,"  he  said.  "  But  a  few  days  ago,  ye  followed 
this  man  with  rejoicing  through  the  streets  of  Jeru 
salem."  The  High  Priest  threatens  to  appeal  to 
Home.  Pilate  fears  to  face  such  an  appeal.  He  has 
little  confidence  in  the  favor  or  the  justice  of  the 
CaBsar  whom  he  serves.  At  last  he  consents  to  what 
he  calls  "  a  great  wrong  in  order  to  avert  a  greater 
evil."  He  calls  for  water,  and  washes  his  hands  in 
ostentatious  innocence.  Finally,  as  he  signs  the 
verdict  of  condemnation  in  wrath  and  disgust,  he 
breaks  his  staff  of  office,  and  flings  the  fragments 
upon  the  stairs,  at  the  feet  of  the  priests. 

Next  we  behold  in  the  foreground  of  the  stage, 
John  and  Mary  the  mother  of  Jesus,  and  with  them 
a  little  group  of  followers.  A  tumult  is  heard,  and, 
in  the  midst  of  a  great  throng  of  people,  we  see 
three  crosses  borne  by  prisoners.  Jesus  beholds  his 
mother.  Suddenly  he  faints,  under  the  weight  of 
the  cross.  The  rough  soldiers  urge  him  on.  Simon 
of  Gyrene,  a  sturdy  passer-by,  who  is  carrying  home 
provisions  from  the  market,  is  seized  by  the  sol 
diers  and  forced  to  give  aid.  At  first  he  refuses. 
"  I  will  not  do  it,"  he  says ;  "  I  am  a  free  man,  and 
no  criminal."  But  his  indignant  protests  turn  to 
pity,  when  he  beholds  the  Holy  Man  of  Nazareth. 
"For  the  love  of  thee,"  he  says,  "will  I  bear  thy 


82  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

cross.  Oh,  could  I  make  myself  thus  worthy  in  thy 
sight!" 

The  closing  scenes  of  the  Passion  Play,  associated 
as  they  are  with  all  that  has  been  held  sacred  by 
our  race  for  nearly  two  thousand  years,  are  thrill 
ing  beyond  comparison.  No  one  can  witness  them 
unmoved.  No  one  can  forget  the  impression  made 
by  the  living  pictures.  In  simplicity  and  reverence, 
the  work  is  undertaken,  and  it  awakens  in  the  be 
holder  only  corresponding  feelings.  Every  heart, 
for  the  time  at  least,  is  stirred  to  its  depths. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  two  crosses  are  seen,  each 
in  its  place.  The  central  cross  is  not  yet  raised. 
The  Roman  soldiers  take  their  time  for  it.  "  Come, 
now,"  says  one  of  them,  "  we  must  put  this  Jewish 
king  upon  his  throne."  So  the  heavy  cross,  with  its 
burden,  is  raised  in  its  place.  We  see  the  bloody 
nails  in  his  hands  and  feet ;  and  so  realistic  is  the 
representation,  that  the  nearest  spectator  cannot 
see  that  he  is  not  actually  nailed  to  the  cross. 
There  is  no  haste  shown  in  the  presentation.  The 
Crucifixion  is  not  a  tableau,  displayed  for  an 
instant  and  then  withdrawn.  The  scene  lasts  so 
long  that  one  feels  a  strange  sense  of  surprise  when 
Christus  Mayr  appears  alive  again. 

Twenty  minutes  is  the  time  actually  taken  for  the 


"  WHAT  I  HAVE  WE  ITT  EN  I  HAVE  WRITTEN."    S3 

representation.  "  It  is  hard,"  said  our  landlady, 
the  good  Frau  Wiedermann,  "  to  be  on  the  cross  so 
long,  even  if  one  is  not  actually  nailed  to  it.  It  is 
hard  for  the  thieves,  too,"  she  said,  "  as  well  as  for 
Josef  Mayr." 

The  thieves  themselves  deserve  a  moment's  notice. 
The  one  on  the  right  is  a  bald  old  man,  who  meets 
his  death  in  patience  and  humility.  The  one  on 
the  left  is  a  robust  young  fellow,  who  defies  his  asso 
ciates  and  tormentors  alike,  and  joins  his  voice  to 
that  of  the  rabble  in  scoffing  at  the  power  of  Jesus. 
"  If  thou  be  a  god,"  he  says,  "  save  thyself  and  us." 
There  is  at  first  a  struggle  over  the  inscription  at  the 
head  of  the  cross.  "  Let  it  read,  '  He  called  himself 
the  King  of  the  Jews,' "  say  the  priests.  But  the 
Roman  soldier  is  obdurate.  "  What  I  have  written 
I  have  written,"  and  the  centurion  grimly  nails  it 
on  the  cross  above  his  head,  regardless  alike  of  their 
rage  and  protestations. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  foreground  the  four  Roman 
guards  part  the  purple  robe  of  Christ,  each  one 
taking  his  share.  But  the  seamless  coat  they  will 
not  divide.  So  they  cast  the  dice  on  the  ground  to 
see  to  whom  this  prize  shall  fall.  They  are  in  no 
hurry.  Traitors  and  thieves  have  all  night  to  die 
in,  and  they  can  wait  for  them.  The  first  soldier 


84  THE    STORY    OF    THE    PASSION. 

throws  a  low  number,  and  gives  up  the  contest. 
The  second  does  better.  The  third  calls  up  to  the 
cross,  "  If  thou  be  a  god,  help  me  to  throw  a  lucky 
number."  One  cast  of  the  dice  is  disputed.  It  has 
to  be  tried  again/ 

Meanwhile  we  hear  the  poor  dying  body  on  the 
cross,  in  a  voice  broken  with  agony, "  Father,  forgive 
them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do."  Again, 
amid  the  railings  of  the  Jews,  "  My  God,  my  God, 
why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?"  Then  again,  after  a 
sharp  cry  of  pain,  "  It  is  finished! " 

The  captain  drives  the  scoffing  mob  away,  bid 
ding  the  women  come  nearer.  Then  a  Roman  sol 
dier,  sent  by  Pilate,  comes  and  breaks  the  legs  of 
the  thieves.  We  hear  their  bones  crack  under  the 
club.  Their  heads  fall,  their  muscles  shrink,  as  the 
breath  leaves  the  body.  But  finding  that  Jesus  is 
already  dead,  the  soldier  breaks  not  his  legs,  but 
thrusts  a  spear  into  his  side.  We  can  see  the  spear 
pierce  the  flesh,  but  we  cannot  see  that  the  blood 
flows  from  the  spear-point  itself,  and  not  from  the 
Master's  body.  The  soldiers  fall  back  with  a 
feeling  of  awe.  Then,  one  by  one,  as  the  darkness 
falls,  we  see  them  file  away  on  the  road  to  Jeru 
salem,  and  the  Son  of  Man  is  left  in  silence. 

Then  follows  the  descent  from  the  cross,  which 


THE    DESCENT    FROM    THE    CROSS.  85 

suggests  comparison  with  Rubens'  famous  painting 
in  the  Cathedral  at  Antwerp,  hut  hero  shown  with 
a  fineness  of  touch  and  delicacy  of  feeling  which 
that  great  painter  of  muscles  and  mantles  could 
never  attain.  We  see  Nicodemus  climb  the  ladder 
leaned  against  the  back  of  the  cross.  He  takes  off 
first  the  crown  of  thorns.  It  is  laid  silently  at 
Mary's  feet.  He  pulls  out  the  nails  one  by  one. 
We  hear  them  fall  upon  the  ground.  With  the  last 
one  falls  the  wrench  with  which  he  has  drawn  it. 
Passing  a  long  roll  of  white  cloth  over  each  arm  of 
the  cross,  he  lets  the  Saviour  down  into  the  strong 
arms  of  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and,  at  last,  into  the 
loving  embrace  of  John  and  Mary.  No  description 
can  give  an  idea  of  the  all-compelling  force  of  this 
scene.  A  treatment  less  reverent  than  is  given  by 
these  peasants  would  make  it  an  intolerable  blas 
phemy.  As  it  is,  its  justification  is  its  perfection. 
And  this  is  the  justification  of  the  Passion  Play 
itself.  It  can  never  become  a  show.  It  can  never 
be  carried  o  other  countries.  It  never  can  be 
given  under  other  circumstances.  So  long  as  its 
players  are  pure  in  heart  and  humble  in  spirit,  so 
long  can  they  keep  their  well-earned  right  to  show 
to  the  world  the  Tragedy  of  the  Cross. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  OF  THE  PADRE. 


THE   CALIFORNIA   OF   THE   PADRE.* 

THERE  is  something  in  the  name  of  Spain 
which  calls  up  impressions  rich,  warm,  and 
romantic.  The  "color  of  romance,"  which  must 
be  something  between  the  hue  of  a  purple  grape 
and  the  red  haze  of  the  Indian  summer,  hangs 
over  everything  Spanish.  Castles  in  Spain  have 
ever  been  the  fairest  castles,  and  the  banks  of  the 
Xenil  and  the  Guadalquivir  still  bound  the  dream 
land  of  the  poet. 

"There  was  never  a  castle  seen 
So  fair  as  mine  in  Spain; 
It  stands  embowered  in  green, 
Overlooking  a  gentle   slope, 
On  a  hill  by  the  Xenil's  shore." 

It  has  been  said  of  Spanish  rule  in  California, 
that  its  history  was  written  upon  sand,  only  to 
be  washed  away  by  the  advancing  tide  of  Saxon 
civilization.  So  far  as  the  economic  or  political 
development  of  our  State  is  concerned,  this  is  true; 


*  Address  at  the  Teachers'  Institute  at  Monterey,  California,  Septem 
ber,  1893. 


90^  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

the  Mission  period  had  no  part  in  it,  and  its  heroes 
have  left  no  imperishable  monuments. 

But  in  one  respect  our  Spanish  predecessors  have 
had  a  lasting  influence,  and  the  debt  we  owe  to 
them,  as  yet  scarcely  appreciated,  is  one  which  will 
grow  with  the  ages.  It  is  said  that  Father  Crespi, 
in  1770,  gave  Spanish  names  to  every  place  where  he 
encamped  at  night,  and  these  names,  rich  and  melo 
dious,  make  the  map  of  California  unique  among 
the  States  of  the  Union.  It  is  fitting  that  the  most 
varied,  picturesque,  and  lovable  of  all  the  States 
should  be  the  one  thus  favored.  We  feel  every 
where  the  charm  of  the  Spanish  language  —  Latin 
cut  loose  from  scholastic  bonds,  with  a  dash  of 
firmness  from  the  Visigoth  and  a  touch  of  warmth 
from  the  sun-loving  Moor.  The  names  of  Mariposa, 
San  Buenaventura,  Santa  Barbara,  Santa  Cruz,  and 
Monterey  can  never  grow  mean  or  common.  In 
the  counties  along  the  coast,  there  is  scarcely  a 
hill,  or  stream,  or  village  that  does  not  bear  some 
melodious  trace  of  Spanish  occupation. 

To  see  what  California  might  have  been,  we  have 
only  to  turn  away  from  the  mission  counties  to  the 
foothills  of  the  Sierras,  where  the  mining-camps  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  bear  such  names  as  Fiddletown, 
Red  Dog,  Dutch  Flat,  Murder  Gulch,  Ace  of  Spades, 


CABRILLO    AND    SIR    FRANCIS    DRAKE.         91 

or  Murderer's  Bar;  these  changing  later,  by  euphe 
mistic  vulgarity,  into  Ruby  City,  Magnolia  Vale, 
Largentville,  Idlewild,  and  the  like.  Or,  if  not 
these,  our  Anglo-Saxon  practically  gives  us,  not 
Our  Lady  of  the  Solitude,  nor  the  City  of  the  Holy 
Cross,  not  Fresno,  the  ash,  nor  Mariposa,  the  butter 
fly,  but  the  momentous  repetition  of  Smithvilles, 
Jonesboroughs,  and  Brownstowns,  which  makes  the 
map  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  a  waste  of  unpoetical 
mediocrity. 

So  the  Spanish  names  constitute  our  legacy  from 
the  Mission  Fathers.  It  is  now  nearly  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  years  since  Alta  California  was  dis 
covered,  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  since  it  was 
colonized  by  white  people,  and  a  little  over  forty 
years  since  it  became  a  part  of  our  republic.  In 
1542,  Cabrillo  had  sailed  up  the  coast  as  far  as 
Cape  Mendocino.  In  1577,  Sir  Francis  Drake  came 
as  far  north  as  Point  Eeyes,  where,  seeing  the 
white  cliffs  of  Marin  County,  he  called  the  country 
New  Albion.  Better  known  than  these  to  Spanish- 
speaking  people  was  the  voyage  of  Sebastian  Viz 
caino,  who,  in  1602,  had  coasted  along  as  far  as  Point 
Reyes,  and  had  left  a  full  account  of  his  discoveries. 
The  landlocked  harbor  which  Cabrillo  had  named 
San  Miguel,  Vizcaino  re-christened  in  honor  of  his 


92  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

flag-ship,  Sau  Diego  de  Alcala.  Farther  north, 
Vizcaino  found  a  glorious  deep  and  sheltered  bay, 
"large  enough  to  float  all  the  navies  of  the  world," 
he  said ;  and  this,  in  honor  of  the  Viceroy  of  Mexico, 
he  called  the  Bay  of  Monterey.  To  a  broad  curve 
of  the  coast  to  the  north,  between  Point  San  Pedro 
and  Point  Reyes,  he  gave  the  name  of  the  Bay  of 
San  Francisco,*  dedicating  it  to  the  memory  of  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi.  A  rough  chart  of  the  coast  was 
made  by  his  pilot,  Cabrera  Bueno,  who  left  also  an 
account  of  its  leading  features. 

For  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  after  Vizcaino's 
expedition,  no  use  was  made  of  his  discoveries.  In 
Professor  Blackmar's  words :  "  During  all  this  time, 
not  a  European  boat  cut  the  surf  of  the  northwest 
coast ;  not  a  foreigner  trod  the  shore  of  Alta  Cali 
fornia.  The  white-winged  galleon,  plying  its  trade 
between  Acapulco  and  the  Philippines,  occasionally 
passed  near  enough  so  that  those  on  board  might 
catch  glimpses  of  the  dark  timber-line  of  the  moun 
tains  of  the  coast  or  of  the  curling  smoke  of  the  forest 
fires;  but  the  land  was  unknown  to  them,  and  the 
natives  pursued  their  wandering  life  unmolested." 

Toward    the    end   of    the  seventeenth   century, 


*This    stretch  of  water,   as  explained   below,  lies  entirely  outside 
of  what  is  now  known  as  San  Francisco  Bay. 


GALVEZ    COMES    TO    LA    PAZ.  93 

Father  Salvatierra,  head  of  the  Jesuit  missions  in 
Lower  California,  fixed  his  eye  on  this  region,  and 
made  plans  for  its  occupation.  In  this  the  good 
Father  Kiilin — a  German  from  Bavaria,  whom  the 
Spaniards  knew  as  "  Quino," — seconded  him.  But 
these  plans  came  to  naught.  The  power  of  the 
Jesuit  order  was  broken;  the  charge  of  the  missions 
in  Lower  California  was  given  to  the  Dominicans, 
that  of  Upper  California  to  the  Franciscans,  and  to 
these  and  their  associates  the  colonization  of  Cali 
fornia  is  due.  The  Franciscans,  it  is  said,  "  were 
the  first  white  men  who  came  to  live  and  die  in 
Alta  California." 

And  this  is  how  it  came  about.  One  hundred 
and  thirty  years  ago,  the  port  of  La  Paz,  in  Baja 
California,  lay  baking  in  the  sun.  La  Paz  was 
then,  as  now,  a  little  old  town,  with  narrow,  stony 
streets  and  adobe  houses,  standing  amidst  palms, 
and  chaparral,  and  cactus.  To  this  port  of  La 
Paz  came,  one  eventful  day,  Don  Jose  de  Galvez, 
envoy  of  the  King  of  Spain.  He  brought  orders  to 
the  Governor  of  California,  Don  Gaspar  de  Portola, 
that  he  should  send  a  vessel  in  search  of  the  ports 
of  San  Diego  and  of  Monterey,  on  the  supposed 
island,  or  peninsula,  of  Upper  California,  once 
found  by  Vizcaino,  but  lost  for  a  century  and  a 


94  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

half.  There  they  were  to  establish  colonies  and 
missions  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church.  They  were 
"to  spread  the  Catholic  religion,"  said  the  letter, 
"  among  a  numerous  heathen  people,  submerged  in 
the  obscure  darkness  of  paganism,  thereby  to 
extend  the  dominion  of  the  king,  our  lord,  and  to 
protect  this  peninsula  of  California  from  the  ambi 
tious  designs  of  the  foreign  nations." 

"  The  land  must  be  fertile  for  everything,"  says 
Galvez,  "  for  it  lies  in  the  same  latitude  as  Spain." 
So  they  carried  all  sorts  of  household  and  field 
utensils,  and  seeds  of  every  useful  plant  that  grew 
in  Spain  and  Mexico  —  the  olive  and  the  pomegran 
ate,  the  grape  and  the  orange,  not  forgetting  the 
garlic  and  the  pepper.  All  these  were  placed  in 
two  small  ships,  the  San  Carlos,  under  the  gallant 
Captain  Vila,  and  the  San  Antonio,  under  Captain 
Perez. 

Padre  Junipero  Serra,  chief  apostle  of  these  Span 
ish  missions,  blessed  the  vessels  and  the  flags,  com 
mending  the  whole  enterprise  to  the  Most  Holy 
Patriarch  San  Jose,  who  was  supposed  to  feel  a 
special  interest  in  this  class  of  expeditions.  His 
early  flight  into  Egypt  gave  him  a  peculiar  fond 
ness  for  schemes  involving  foreign  travel.  Galvez 
exhorted  the  soldiers  and  sailors  to  respect  the 


SEER  A    LEAVES    FOR    SAN   DIEGO.  95 

priests,  and  not  to  quarrel  with  each  other.  And 
thus  they  sailed  away  for  San  Diego  in  the  winter 
of  1769. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  organized  a  land 
expedition,  which  should  cross  the  sandy  deserts 
and  cactus-covered  hills  and  join  the  vessels  at  San 
Diego.  That  there  should  be  no  risk  of  failure, 
Don  Gaspar  de  Portola  divided  the  land  forces  into 
two  divisions,  one  led  by  himself,  the  other  by  Cap 
tain  Rivera.  These  two  parties  were  to  take  differ 
ent  routes,  so  that  if  one  were  destroyed  the  other 
might  accomplish  the  work.  In  front  of  each  band 
were  driven  a  hundred  head  of  cattle,  which  were 
to  colonize  the  new  territories  with  their  kind. 

Padre  Serra  went  with  the  land  expedition  under 
the  command  of  Portola.  A  barefooted  friar,  clad 
in  a  rough  cloak  confined  by  a  rope  at  the  waist, 
looks  comfortable  enough  in  the  cool  shade  of  an 
Italian  cathedral;  but  the  garb  of  the  Franciscan 
order  is  ill-fitted  to  the  peculiarities  of  the  Califor 
nia  mesa.  For  the  vegetation  of  Lower  California 
makes  up  in  bristliness  what  it  lacks  in  luxuriance. 
Bush  cactuses,  so  prickly  that  it  makes  one's  eyes 
smart  to  look  at  them,  and  bunch  cactuses,  in  wads 
of  thorns  as  large  as  a  bushel-basket,  swarm  every 
where.  Before  the  barefooted  Padre  had  traveled 


96  THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADRE. 

far,  so  Miss  Graham  tells  us  in  her  charming  little 
paper  on  the  Spanish  missions,  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  many  species  of  cactus.  Horses  in 
that  country  become  lame  sometimes,  and  people 
say  that  they  are  "  cactus-legged.''  And  soon  Father 
Serra  became  "  cactus-legged,"  too,  so  that  he  could 
neither  walk  nor  ride  a  mule.  The  Indians  were 
therefore  obliged  to  carry  him  in  a  litter,  for  he 
would  not  go  back  to  La  Paz. 

But  the  Father  felt  great  compassion  for  the 
Indians,  who  had  enough  to  do  to  carry  themselves. 
He  prayed  fervently  for  a  time,  and  then,  accord 
ing  to  the  chronicler  of  the  expedition,  "  He  called 
a  mule-driver  and  said  to  him :  f  Son,  do  you  know 
some  remedy  for  my  foot  and  leg? '  But  the  mule- 
driver  answered,  *  Father,  what  remedy  can  I  know? 
Am  I  a  surgeon  ?  I  am  a  mule-driver,  and  have 
cured  only  the  sore  backs  of  beasts/  i  Then  con 
sider  me  a  beast/  said  the  Father, '  and  this  sore  leg 
to  be  a  sore  back,  and  treat  me  as  you  would  a  mule-.' 
Then  said  the  muleteer,  ' 1  will,  Father,  to  please 
you,'  and  taking  a  small  piece  of  tallow,  he  mashed 
it  between  two  stones,  mixing  with  it  herbs  that 
grew  close  by.  Then  heating  it  over  the  fire,  he 
anointed  the  foot  and  leg,  and  left  the  plaster  upon 
the  sore.  'God  wrought  in  such  a  manner/  wrote 


MIKAVLKfl    OF    PADUE    fMllllA.  1'7 

to  Padre  Serra  afterwards, 'Unit  I  slept  nil  Unit 
ight,  and  awoke  so  much  relieved  that  I  got  up 
ad  said  matins  and  prime-,  and  afterwards  mas?, 
;;  if  nothing  had  happened.' 

But  Father  Serra  did  not  show  his  faith  by 
sch  simple  miracles  as  these  alone.  In  one  of  his 
ivival  meetings  in  Mexico,  Bancroft  tolls  us,  ho 
\\3  beating  himself  with  a  chain  in  punishment  for 
Is  imaginary  offenses,  when  a  man  seized  the 
cain  and  beat  himself  to  death  as  a  miserable 
siner,  in  the  presence  of  the  people.  At  another 
tne,  sixty  persons  who  neglected  to  attend  his 
icetings  were  killed  by  an  epidemic,  and  the 
csease  went  on,  killing  one  after  another,  until  the 
poplo  had  been  scared  into  attention  to  their 
iligious  duties.  Then,  at  a  sign  from  Padro  Serra, 
te  plague  abated. 

At  one  time  the  good  Padro  was  well  lodged  and 
ctertained  in  a  very  neat  wayside  cottage  on  a  de-s 
tate  and  solitary  road.  Later  ho  learned  that  there 
>\s  no  such  cottage  in  that  region,  and,  we  are  told, 
1)  concluded  that  his  entertainers  were  Joseph, 
lary,  and  Jesus. 

Suffering  greatly  from  thirst  on  one  of  his  jour- 
nys,  he  said  to  his  companions,  who  were  com- 
laining :  "  The  best  way  to  prevent  thirst  is  to  eat 


98  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

little  and  talk  less."  In  a  violent  storm  he  was 
perfectly  calm,  and  the  storm  ceased  instantly  when 
a  saint  chosen  by  lot  had  been  addressed  in  prayer. 
And  so  on ;  for  miracles  like  these  are  constant 
accompaniments  of  a  mind  wholly  given  over  to 
religious  enthusiasm. 

In  due  season,  Padre  Serra  and  his  party  arrived 
at  San  Diego,  having  followed  the  barren  and 
dreary  coast  of  Lower  California  for  three  hundred 
and  sixty  miles,  often  carrying  water  for  great  dis 
tances,  and  as  often  impeded  by  winter  rains.  The 
boats  and  the  other  party  were  already  there,  and 
in  the  valley  to  the  north  of  the  mesa,  on  the  banks 
of  the  little  San  Diego  River,  they  founded  the  first 
mission  in  California. 

Within  a  fortnight  of  Serra's  arrival  at  San 
Diego,  a  special  land  expedition  set  out  in  search 
of  Vizcaino's  lost  port  of  Monterey.  The  expedi 
tion,  under  Don  Gaspar  de  Portola,  was  unhappy  in 
some  respects,  though  fortunate  in  others  —  un 
happy,  for  after  wandering  about  in  the  Coast 
Range  for  six  months,  the  soldiers  returned  to  San 
Diego,  weary,  half-starved,  and  disgusted,  failing 
altogether,  as  they  supposed,  to  find  Monterey; 
fortunate,  for  it  was  their  luck  to  discover  the  far 
more  important  Bay  of  San  Francisco.  It  seems 


SEARCHING    FOR    MONTEREY  'JfyA&i,  •»  , ,  ;  ;  99' 

evident,  from  the  researches  of  John  T.  Doyle  and 
others,  that  the  company  of  Portola,  from  the  hills 
above  what  is  now  Redwood  City,  were  the  first 
white  men  to  behold  the  present  Bay  of  San  Fran 
cisco.  The  journal  of  Miguel  Costanzo,  a  civil 
engineer  with  Portola's  command,  is  still  preserved 
in  the  Sutro  Library  in  San  Francisco,  and  Cos- 
tanzo's  map  of  the  coast  has  been  published.  The 
diary  of  Father  Crespi,  who  accompanied  Portola, 
has  also  been  printed. 

The  little  company  went  along  the  coast  from 
San  Diego  northward,  meeting  many  Indians  on 
the  way,  and  having  various  adventures  with  them. 
In  the  pretty  valley  which  they  named  San  Juan 
Capistrano,  they  found  the  Indian  men  dressed  in 
suits  of  paint,  the  women  in  bearskins.  On  the 
site  of  the  present  town  of  Santa  Ana,  which  they 
called  Jesus  de  los  Temblores,  they  met  terrific 
earthquakes  day  and  night.  At  Los  Angeles,  they 
celebrated  the  feast  of  Our  Lady  the  Queen  of  the 
Angels  (Nuestra  Senora,  Reina  de  Los  Angeles),  from 
which  the  valley  took  the  name  it  still  bears. 
They  passed  up  the  broad  valley  of  San  Fernando 
Rey,  and  crossed  the  mountains  to  the  present  vil 
lage  of  Saugus.  Thence  they  went  down  the  Santa 
Clara  River  to  San  Buenaventura  and  Santa  Bar- 


.  -100        ,  FHE  "CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADRE. 

bara,  their  route  coinciding  with  that  of  the  present 
railroad.  Above  San  Buenaventura  they  found 
Indians  living  in  huts  of  sagebrush.  At  Santa 
Barbara,  the  Indians  fed  on  excellent  fish,  but 
played  the  flute  at  night  so  persistently  that  Portola 
and  his  soldiers  could  not  sleep  for  the  music. 
They  next  passed  Point  Concepcion,  and  crossed 
the  picturesque  Santa  Ynez  and  the  fertile  Arroyo 
Grande  to  the  basin-shaped  valley  of  San  Luis 
Obispo,  with  its  row  of  four  conical  mountains. 
At  the  last  of  these,  Moro  Rock,  they  reached  the 
sea  again.  Above  Piedras  Blancas,  where  the 
rugged  cliffs  of  the  Santa  Lucia  crowd  down  to  the 
ocean,  they  were  blocked,  and  could  go  no  farther. 
Crossing  the  mountains  to  the  east,  they  followed 
Nacimiento  Creek  to  below  Paso  Robles,  then  went 
down  the  dusty  valley  of  the  Salinas,  past  the 
pastures  on  which  the  missions  of  San  Miguel  and 
Soledad  were  later  planted.  Below  Soledad,  they 
came  again  to  the  sea.  They  then  went  along 
the  shore  to  the  westward,  past  the  present  site  of 
Monterey  and  Pacific  Grove,  and  on  to  the  Point 
of  Pines  itself,  the  southern  border  of  the  Bay  of 
Monterey.  Yet  not  one  of  them  recognized  the  bay 
or  any  of  the  landmarks  described  by  Vizcaino.  At 
the  Point  of  Pines,  they  were  greatly  disheartened, 


\     V 

M 


VIZCAINO'S    LOST    BAY    OF   MONTEREY.        103 

because  they  could  nowhere  find  a  trace  of  the  Bay 
of  Monterey,  or  of  any  other  bay  which  was  shel 
tered,  or  on  which  "  the  navies  of  the  world  could 
ride."  Father  Crespi  celebrated  here  "the  Feast  of 
Our  Father  in  the  New  World";  "or,"  he  adds, 
"  perhaps  in  a  corner  of  the  Old  World,  without 
any  other  church  or  choir  than  a  desert."  Portola 
offered  to  return,  but  Crespi  said  :  "  Let  us  continue 
our  journey  until  we  find  the  harbor  of  Monterey; 
if  it  be  God's  will,  we  will  die  fulfilling  our  duty  to 
God  and  our  country."  So  they  crossed  the  Salinas 
again,  and  went  northward  along  the  shore  of  the 
very  bay  they  had  sought  so  long.  Then  they 
came  to  another  river,  where  they  killed  a  great 
eagle,  whose  wings  spread  nine  feet  and  three 
inches.  They  called  this  river  Pajaro,  which 
means  "  bird,"  and  devoutly  added  to  it  the  name 
of  Saint  Anne,  "  Rio  del  Pajaro  de  Santa  Ana."  To 
the  memory  of  this  bird,  the  Pajaro  River  still  re 
mains  dedicated.  Farther  on,  they  came  to  forests 
of  redwood — "Palo  Colorado,"  they  called  it.  Crespi 
describes  the  trees  "as  very  high,  resembling  cedars 
of  Lebanon,  but  not  of  the  same  color;  the  leaves 
different,  and  the  wood  very  brittle." 

At  Santa  Cruz,  on  the  San  Lorenzo  River,  they 
encamped,  still  bewailing  their  inability  to  find 


104  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

Monterey  Bay.  Going  northward,  along  the  coast 
past  Pescadero  and  Halfmoon  Bay,  they  saw  the 
great  headland  of  Point  San  Pedro.  They  called  it 
Point  Guardian  Angel  (Angel  Custodio),  and  from 
its  heights  they  could  clearly  see  Point  Reyes  and 
the  chalk-white  islands  of  the  Farallones.  These 
landmarks  they  recognized  from  the  charts  of 
Cabrera  Bueno.  Crespi  says :  "  Scarce  had  we 
ascended  the  hill,  when  we  perceived  a  vast  bay 
formed  by  a  great  projection  of  land  extending  out 
to  sea.  We  see  six  or  seven  islands,  white,  and 
differing  in  size.  Following  the  coast  toward  the 
north,  we  can  perceive  a  wide,  deep  cut,  and  north 
west  we  see  the  opening  of  a  bay  which  seems  to 
go  inside  the  land.  At  these  signs,  we  come  to 
recognize  this  harbor.  It  is  that  of  our  Father  St. 
Francis,  and  that  of  Monterey  we  have  left  behind." 
"  But  some,"  he  adds,  "  cannot  believe  yet  that  we 
have  left  behind  us  the  harbor  of  Monterey,  and 
that  we  are  in  that  of  San  Francisco." 

But  the  "  Harbor  of  San  Francisco,"  as  indicated 
by  Cabrera  Bueno,  lay  quite  outside  the  Golden 
Gate,  in  the  curve  between  Point  San  Pedro  on  the 
south,  and  Point  Reyes  on  the  north.  The  exist 
ence  of  the  Golden  Gate,  and  the  landlocked  waters 
within,  forming  what  is  now  known  as  San  Fran- 


DISCOVERY    OF    SAN   FRANCISCO    BAY.         105 

cisco  Bay,  was  not  suspected  by  any  of  the  early 
explorers.  The  high  coast  line,  the  rolling  break 
ers,  and,  perhaps,  the  banks  of  fog,  had  hidden  the 
Golden  Gate  and  the  bay  from  Cabrillo,  Drake,  and 
Vizcaino  alike.  By  chance  a  few  members  of  Por- 
tola's  otherwise  unfortunate  expedition  discovered 
the  glorious  harbor.  Some  of  the  soldiers,  led  by 
an  officer  named  Ortega,  wandered  out  on  the 
Sierra  Morena,  east  of  Point  San  Pedro.  When 
they  reached  the  summit  and  looked  eastward,  an 
entirely  new  prospect  was  spread  out  before  them. 
From  the  foothills  of  these  mountains,  they  saw  a 
great  arm  of  the  ocean  —  "a  mediterranean  sea," 
they  termed  it,  according  to  Mr.  Doyle's  account, 
"  with  a  fair  and  extensive  valley  bordering  it,  rich 
and  fertile  —  a  paradise  compared  with  the  coun 
try  they  had  been  passing  over."  They  rushed 
back  to  the  seashore,  waving  their  hats  and  shout 
ing.  Then  the  whole  party  crossed  over  from  Half- 
moon  Bay  into  the  valley  of  San  Mateo  Creek. 
Thence  they  turned  to  the  south  to  go  around  the 
head  of  the  bay,  passing  first  over  into  the  Canada 
del  Raymundo,  which  skirts  the  foot  of  the  moun 
tain.  Soon  they  came  down  the  "  Bear  Gulch  "  to 
San  Francisquito  Creek,  at  the  point  where  Sears- 
ville  once  stood,  before  the  great  Potola  Reservoir 


103  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

covered  its  traces  and  destroyed  its  old  landmark, 
the  Portola  Tavern.  They  entered  what  is  now  the 
University  Campus,  on  which  columns  of  ascend 
ing  smoke  showed  the  presence  of  many  camps 
of  Indians.  These  Indians  were  not  friendly.  The 
expedition  was  out  of  provisions,  and  many  of  its 
members  were  sick  from  eating  acorns.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  the  extension  of  the  Estero 
de  San  Francisco.  At  last,  in  despair,  but  against 
the  wishes  of  Portola,  they  decided  to  return  to  San 
Diego.  They  encamped  on  San  Francisquito  Creek, 
and  crossed  the  hills  again  to  Halfmoon  Bay.  Then 
they  went  down  the  coast  by  Point  Afio  Nuevo,  to 
Santa  Cruz.  At  the  Point  of  Pines  they  spent  two 
weeks,  searching  again  everywhere  for  the  Bay  of 
Monterey. 

At  last  they  decided  that  Vizcaino's  description 
must  have  been  too  highly  colored,  or  else  that  the 
Bay  of  Monterey  must,  since  his  time,  have  been 
filled  up  with  silt  or  destroyed  by  some  earthquake. 
At  any  rate,  the  bay  between  Santa  Cruz  and  the 
Point  of  Pines  was  the  only  Monterey  they  could  find. 
According  to  Washburn,  Vizcaino's  account  was  far 
from  a  correct  one.  It  was  no  fault  of  Portola  and 
Crespi  that,  after  spending  a  month  on  its  shores, 
it  never  occurred  to  them  to  recognize  the  bay. 


AT    THE    POINT    OF   P1NE8.  107 

On  the  Point  of  Pines  they  erected  a  large  wooden 
cross,  and  carved  on  it  the  words :  "  Dig  at  the  foot 
of  this  and  you  will  find  a  writing." 

According  to  Crespi  this  is  what  was  written : 

"  The  overland  expedition  which  left  San  Diego 
on  the  14th  of  July,  1769,  under  the  command  of 
Don  Gaspar  de  Portola,  Governor  of  California, 
reached  the  channel  of  Santa  Barbara  on  the  9th  of 
August,  and  passed  Point  Concepcion  on  the  27th 
of  the  same  month.  It  arrived  at  the  Sierra  de 
Santa  Lucia  on  the  13th  of  September ;  entered  that 
range  of  mountains  on  the  17th  of  the  same  month, 
and  emerged  from  it  on  the  1st  of  October;  on  the 
same  day  caught  sight  of  Point  Pinos,  and  the  har 
bors  on  its  north  and  south  sides,  without  discov- 
ing  any  indications  or  landmarks  of  the  Bay  of 
Monterey.  We  determined  to  push  on  farther  in 
search  of  it,  and  on  the  30th  of  October  got  sight  of 
Point  Reyes  and  the  Farallones,  at  the  Bay  of  San 
Francisco,  which  are  seven  in  number.  The  expe 
dition  strove  to  reach  Point  Reyes,  but  was  hin 
dered  by  an  immense  arm  of  the  sea,  which,  extend 
ing  to  a  great  distance  inland,  compelled  them  to 
make  an  enormous  circuit  for  that  purpose.  In 
consequence  of  this  and  other  difficulties  —  the 
greatest  of  all  being  the  absolute  want  of  food, — 
the  expedition  was  compelled  to  turn  back,  believ 
ing  that  they  must  have  passed  the  harbor  of  Mon 
terey  without  discovering  it.  We  started  on  return 


108  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

from  the  Bay  of  San  Francisco  on  the  llth  of  No 
vember;  passed  Point  Afio  Nuevo  on  the  19th,  and 
reached  this  point  and  harbor  of  Pinos  on  the  27th 
of  the  same  month.  From  that  date  until  the  pres 
ent  9th  of  December,  we  have  used  every  effort  to 
find  the  Bay  of  Monterey,  searching  the  coast,  not 
withstanding  its  ruggedness,  far  and  wide,  but  in 
vain.  At  last,  undeceived  and  despairing  of  finding 
it,  after  so  many  efforts,  sufferings,  and  labors,  and 
having  left  of  all  our  provisions  but  fourteen  small 
sacks  of  flour,  we  leave  this  place  to-day  for  San 
Diego.  I  beg  of  Almighty  God  to  guide  us;  and  for 
you,  traveler,  who  may  read  this,  that  He  may 
guide  you  also,  to  the  harbor  of  eternal  salvation. 

"  Done,  in  this  harbor  of  Pinos,  the  9th  of  Decem 
ber,  1769. 

"  If  the  commanders  of  the  schooners,  either  the 
San  Jose  or  the  Principe,  should  reach  this  place 
within  a  few  days  after  this  date,  on  learning  the 
accounts  of  this  writing,  and  of  the  distressed  con 
dition  of  this  expedition,  we  beseech  them  to  follow 
the  coast  down  closely  toward  San  Diego,  so  that  if 
we  should  be  happy  enough  to  catch  sight  of  them, 
we  may  be  able  to  apprize  them  by  signals,  flags, 
and  firearms  of  the  place  where  help  and  provi 
sions  may  reach  us." 

The  next  day  the  whole  party  started  back  to 
San  Diego,  making  the  journey  fairly  well,  in  spite 
of  illness  and  lack  of  proper  food.  Though  dis- 


BACK    TO    SAN   DIEGO.  109 

appointed  at  Portola/s  failure,  Serra  had  no  idea 
of  abandoning  his  project  of  founding  a  mission  at 
Monterey.  He  made  further  preparations,  and  in 
about  three  months  after  Portola's  return  a  newly 
organized  expedition  left  San  Diego.  It  consisted 
of  two  divisions,  one  by  land,  again  commanded 
by  Portola,  and  one  by  sea.  This  time  the  good 
Father  wisely  chose  for  himself  to  go  by  sea,  and 
embarked  on  the  San  Antonio,  which  was  the  only 
ship  he  had  in  sailing  condition.  In  about  a 
month  Portola's  land  party  reached  the  Point  of 
Pines,  and  there  they  found  their  cross  still  stand 
ing.  According  to  Laura  Bride  Powers,  "  great 
festoons  of  abalone-shells  hung  around  its  arms, 
with  strings  of  fish  and  meat;  feathers  projected 
from  the  top,  and  bundles  of  arrows  and  sticks  lay 
at  its  base.  All  this  was  to  appease  the  stranger 
gods,  and  the  Indians  told  them  that  at  nightfall 
the  terrible  cross  would  stretch  its  white  arms  into 
space,  and  grow  skyward  higher  and  higher,  till  it 
would  touch  the  stars,  then  it  would  burst  into  a 
blaze  and  glow  throughout  the  night." 

Suddenly,  as  they  came  back  through  the  forest 
from  the  Point  of  Pines,  the  thought  came  both  to 
Crespi  and  Portola  that  here,  after  all,  was  the  lost 
bay  of  Vizcaino.  In  this  thought  they  ran  over 


110  THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADEE. 

the  landmarks  of  his  description,  and  found  all  of 
them,  though  the  harbor  was  less  important  than 
Vizcaino  had  believed.  Since  that  day  no  one  has 
doubted  the  existence  of  the  Bay  of  Monterey. 

A  week  later,  the  San  Antonio  arrived,  coming  in 
sight  around  the  Point  of  Pines,  and  was  guided  to  its 
anchorage  by  bonfires  along  the  beach.  The  party 
landed  at  the  mouth  of  the  little  brook  which  flows 
down  a  rocky  bank  to  the  sea.  On  the  3rd  of 
June,  1770,  Father  Serra  and  his  associates  "  took 
possession  of  the  land  in  the  name  of  the  King  of 
Spain,  hoisting  the  Spanish  flag,  pulling  out  some 
of  the  grass  and  throwing  stones  here  and  there, 
making  formal  entry  of  the  proceedings."  On  the 
same  day  Serra  began  his  mission  by  erecting  a 
cross,  hanging  bells  from  a  tree,  and  saying  mass 
under  the  venerable  oak  where  the  Carmelite 
friars  accompanying  Vizcaino  celebrated  it  in  1602. 
Around  this  landing  grew  up  the  town  of  Monterey. 

At  a  point  just  back  from  the  shore,  near  the 
old  live-oak  tree  under  which  the  Padre  rendered 
thanks,  there  has  long  stood  a  commemorative 
cross.  On  the  hill  above  where  the  Padre  stood 
looking  out  over  the  beautiful  bay,  there  was  placed 
one  hundred  and  twenty  years  later,  by  the  kind 
interest  of  a  good  woman,  a  noble  statue,  in  gray 


THE    STATUE    OF   PADRE    SERE  A.  Ill 

granite,  representing  Father  Serra  as  he  stepped 
from  his  boat. 

A  fortress,  or  presidio,  was  built,  and  Monterey 
was  made  the  capital  of  Alta  California.  But  the 
mission  was  not  located  at  the  town.  It  was 
placed  five  miles  farther  south,  where  there  were 
better  pasturage  and  shelter.  This  was  on  a 
beautiful  slope  of  the  hill,  flanked  by  a  fertile  val 
ley  opening  out  to  the  glittering  sea,  with  the 
mountains  of  Santa  Lucia  in  front  and  a  great  pine 
forest  behind.  The  valley  was  named  Carmelo,  in 
honor  of  Vizcaino's  Carmelite  friars,  and  the  mis 
sion  was  named  for  San  Carlos  Borromeo. 

The  present  church  of  Monterey  was  not  a  mission 
church,  but  the  chapel  of  the  presidio,  or  barracks. 
It  is  now,  according  to  Father  Casanova,  the  oldest 
building  in  California.  The  old  Mission  of  San  Die 
go,  first  founded  of  all,  was  burned  by  the  Indians. 
It  was  afterwards  rebuilt,  but  this  took  place  after 
the  chapel  in  Monterey  was  finished.  The  mission 
in  Carmelo  was  not  completed  until  later,  as  the 
Padre  was  obliged  to  secure  authority  from  Mexi 
co,  that  he  might  place  it  on  the  pasture  lands  of 
Carmelo,  instead  of  the  sand-hills  of  Monterey. 

When  the  discoveries  of  Portola  and  Ortega  had 
been  reported  at  San  Diego,  the  shores  of  this  inland 


112  THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADRE. 

sea  of  San  Francisco  seemed  a  most  favorable  sta 
tion  for  another  mission.  Among  the  missions 
already  dedicated  to  the  saints,  none  had  yet  been 
found  for  the  great  father  of  the  Franciscan  order, 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  the  beloved  saint  who  could  call 
the  birds  and  who  knew  the  speech  of  all  animals. 
Before  this,  Father  Serra  had  said  to  Governor 
Galvez,  "  And  for  our  Father  St.  Francis  is  there  to 
be  no  mission?"  And  Galvez  answered,  "  If  St. 
Francis  wants  a  mission,  let  him  show  his  port,  and 
we  will  found  the  mission  there." 

And  now  the  lost  port  of  St.  Francis  was  found, 
and  it  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all,  with  the  noblest 
of  harbors,  and  the  fairest  of  views  toward  the  hills 
and  the  sea.  So  the  new  mission  was  called  for 
him,  the  Mission  San  Francisco  de  los  Dolores. 
For  the  Creek  Dolores,  the  "brook  of  sorrows," 
flowed  by  the  mission,  and  gave  it  part  of  its  name. 
But  Dolores  stream  is  long  since  obliterated,  form 
ing  part  of  the  sewage  system  of  San  Francisco.* 

Thus  was  founded 

"that  wondrous  city,  now  apostate  to  the  creed, 
O'er  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw  the  angel's  golden 
reed.'' 


*The  limits  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  as  now  understood,  were  ascer 
tained  at  the  time  of  the  founding  of  the  mission,  and  the  name  was 
then  formally  adopted. 


"  SUCH   A    NAME,   IS  IT  LOVE   OR   PRAISE?"     113 

Meanwhile,  following  San  Diego  de  Alcala  and 
San  Carlos  Borromeo,  a  long  series  of  missions  was 
established,  each  one  bearing  the  sonorous  Spanish 
name  of  some  saint  or  archangel,  each  in  some 
beautiful  sunny  valley,  half-hidden  by  oaks,  and 
each  a  day's  ride  distant  from  the  next.  In  the 
most  charming  nook  of  the  Santa  Lucia  Mountains 
was  built  San  Antonio  de  Padua ;  in  the  finest  open 
pastures  of  the  Coast  Range,  San  Luis  Obispo  de 
Tolosa.  In  the  rich  valley,  above  the  city  of  the 
Queen  of  the  Angels,  the  beautiful  church  of  San 
Gabriel  Arcangel  was  dedicated  to  the  leader  of  the 
hosts  of  heaven.  Later,  came  the  magnificent  San 
Juan  Capistrano,  ruined  by  earthquakes  in  1812. 
In  its  garden  still  stands  the  largest  pepper-tree  in 
Southern  California. 

Then  Santa  Clara  was  built  in  the  center  of  the 
fairest  valley  of  the  State.  Next  came  San  Buena 
ventura  and  Santa  Barbara,  for  the  coast  Indians  of 
the  south,  and  Santa  Cruz,  for  those  to  the  north  of 
Monterey  Bay.  In  the  Salinas  Valley,  along  the 
"  Camino  real"  or  royal  highway,  from  the  south 
to  the  north,  were  built  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Sole- 
dad  and  San  Miguel  Arcangel.  A  day's  journey 
from  Carmelo,  in  the  valley  of  the  Pajaro,  arose 
San  Juan  Bautista.  In  the  charming  valley  of 


114  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

Santa  Ynez,  still  hidden  from  the  tourist,  a  day's 
journey  apart,  were  Santa  Ynez  and  La  Purisima 
Concepcion.  East  of  the  Bay  of  San  Francisco,  in 
a  nook  famous  for  vineyards,  arose  the  Mission  San 
Jose. 

In  the  broad,  rocky  pastures  above  Los  Angeles, 
arose  San  Fernando  Rey  de  Espafia,  while  midway 
between  San  Diego  and  San  Juan  Capistrano  was 
placed  the  stateliest  of  all  the  missions,  dedicated, 
with  its  rich  river  valley,  to  the  memory  of  San 
Luis  Rey  de  Francia.  Finally,  to  the  north  of  San 
Francisco  Bay,  was  built  San  Rafael,  small,  but 
charmingly  situated,  and  then  San  Francisco  So- 
lano,  still  farther  on  in  Sonoma.  This,  the  north 
ernmost  outpost  of  the  saints,  the  last,  weakest,  and 
smallest,  was  first  to  die.  It  was  founded  in  1823, 
fifty  years  after  the  Mission  San  Diego. 

Wherever  you  find  in  California  a  warm,  sunny 
valley  leading  from  the  ocean  back  to  the  purple 
mountains,  with  a  clear  stream  in  its  midst,  and 
filled  in  summer  with  blue  haze,  around  it  steep 
slopes  on  which  grapes  may  grow,  you  have  found 
a  mission  valley,  and  these  grapes  are  mission 
grapes.  Somewhere  in  it  you  will  see  a  cluster 
of  large,  wide-spreading  pepper-trees,  with  delicate 
light-green  foliage,  or  a  grove  of  gnarled  olives, 


p  i 

~       !*, 

I 


MISSION    VALLEYS     AND   MISSION   GRAPES.      117 

looking  like  stunted  willows,  or,  perhaps,  a  cluster 
of  old  pear-trees,  or  sometimes  a  tall  palm.  Near 
these  you  will  find  the  ruins  of  old  houses  of 
adobe,  wherein  once  dwelt  the  Indian  neophytes. 
These  houses  are  clustered  around  the  walls,  now 
almost  in  ruins,  of  the  mission  itself,  which  had 
its  chapel,  refectory,  and  baptistry,  and  in  all  its 
details  it  resembled  closely  a  parish  church  of  Italy 
or  Spain. 

The  mission  was  usually  laid  out  in  the  form  of 
a  hollow  square,  inclosed  by  a  wall  of  adobe,  twelve 
feet  high,  the  whole  inclosure  being  two  or  three 
hundred  feet  square.  In  the  center  of  this  square  was 
a  chapel,  also  of  adobe;  for  the  sun  of  California  is 
kind  to  California's  children,  and  a  house  of  dried 
mud  will  withstand  the  scanty  rains  of  a  century. 
Some  of  these  old  chapels  are  still  used,  but  the 
roofs  of  most  of  them  have  long  since  fallen  in,  and 
the  ornaments  have  been  removed  to  decorate  some 
other  building.  The  mission  churches  were  built 
like  mimic  cathedrals,  cathedrals  of  mud  instead  of 
marble,  and,  like  their  great  models,  each  had  its 
altar,  with  candles  and  crucifix,  its  vessels  of  holy 
water,  and  on  the  walls  the  inevitable  paintings  of 
heaven  and  purgatory.  Their  most  charming  fea 
ture  was  the  arched  cloister,  a  feature  which  has 


118  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

been  retained  and  beautified  in  the  architecture  of 
Leland  Stanford  Jr.  University,  at  Palo  Alto. 

Each  church,  too,  had  its  little  chime  of  bells, 
some  of  which  were  partly  of  gold  or  silver,  as  well 
as  of  brass.  During  the  early  enthusiasm,  when 
the  mission  bells  were  cast,  old  heirlooms  from 
Spain,  rings,  vases,  and  ancestral  goblets  from 
which  had  been  "  drunk  the  red  wine  of  Tarragon," 
were  thrown  into  the  molten  metal.  And  when 
these  consecrated  bells  chimed  out  the  Angelus 
at  the  sunset  hour,  with  the  sound  of  their  voices 
all  evil  spirits  wrere  driven  away,  and  no  harm  could 
come  to  man  or  beast  or  growing  grain. 

"Bells  of  the  past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 

Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 
Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  present 
With  color  of  romance ; 

I  hear  you  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 

On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 
As  down  the  coast  the  mission  voices  blending, 

Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

"  Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 

No  blight  nor  mildew  falls, 
Nor  fierce  unrest  nor  sordid  low  ambition 
Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding 

I  touch  the  farther  past. 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dreain  and  last. 


THE    DYING    GLOW    OF   SPANISH    GLORY.     119 

"Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness, 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still, 

And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 
The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill."* 

Around  the  church  were  built  storehouses,  work 
shops,  granaries,  barracks  for  the  soldiers,  —  in 
short,  everything  necessary  for  comfort  and  secu 
rity.  Each  mission  was  at  once  fortress,  refuge, 
church,  and  town.  The  little  town  grew  in  time 
more  and  more  to  resemble  its  fellows  in  old  Spain. 
Bull-fights  and  other  festivals  were  held  in  the 
plaza,  or  public  square,  in  front  of  the  presidio,  or 
governor's  house,  and  the  long,  low,  whitewashed 
hacienda,  or  tavern. 

About  the  mission  arose  a  great  farm.  Vines  and 
olives  were  planted,  and  often  long  avenues  of  shade- 
trees.  The  level  lands  were  sown  to  barley  and 
oats;  great  herds  of  cattle  and  horses  roamed  over 
the  hills.  The  sale  of  wine,  and  especially  of  hides, 
brought  in  each  year  an  increasing  revenue.  The 
poor,  struggling  missions  became  rich.  The  com 
manders  kept  up  a  dignity  worthy  of  the  represent 
atives  of  the  Spanish  king,  though  often  they  had 
little  enough  to  command.  It  is  said  that  one  of 
them,  wishing  to  fire  a  salute  in  honor  of  some  for 
eign  vessel,  first  sent  on  board  to  borrow  powder. 

*Bret  Harte. 


120  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

In  the  words  of  Bret  Harte,  with  the  comandante 
the  days  "slipped  by  in  a  delicious  monotony  of 
simple  duties,  unbroken  by  incident  or  interrup 
tion.  The  regularly  recurring  feasts  and  saint's 
days,  the  half-yearly  courier  from  San  Diego,  the 
rare  transport  ship,  and  rarer  foreign  vessels,  were 
the  mere  details  of  his  patriarchal  life.  If  there 
was  no  achievement,  there  was  certainly  no  failure. 
Abundant  harvests  and  patient  industry  amply 
supplied  the  wants  of  the  presidio  and  mission. 
Isolated  from  the  family  of  nations,  the  wars  which 
shook  the  world  concerned  them  not  so  much  as 
the  last  earthquake;  the  struggle  that  emancipated 
their  sister  colonies  on  the  other  side  of  the  conti 
nent  had  to  them  no  suggestiveness.  It  was  that 
glorious  Indian  summer  of  California  history,  that 
bland,  indolent  autumn  of  Spanish  rule,  so  soon  to 
be  followed  by  the  wintry  storms  of  Mexican  in 
dependence  and  the  reviving  spring  of  American 
conquest." 

The  Indians  were  usually  gathered  about  the 
mission  by  force  or  by  persuasion.  Being  baptized 
with  holy  water,  they  were  taught  to  build  houses, 
raise  grain,  and  take  care  of  cattle.  In  place  of 
their  savage  rites,  they  learned  to  count  their  beads 
and  say  their  prayers.  They  learned  also  to  work, 


THE    INDIANS    OF    CALIFORNIA.  123 

and  were  pious  and  generally  contented.  But  these 
California  Indians,  at  the  best,  were  far  inferior  to 
those  of  the  East.  "  "When  attached  to  the  mis 
sion,"  Mr.  Soule  says,  "  they  were  an  industrious, 
contented,  and  numerous  class,  though,  indeed,  in 
intelligence  and  manly  spirit  they  were  little  better 
than  the  beasts,  after  all." 

The  Jesuit  Father,  Venegas,  remarks,  discour- 
agingly :  "  It  is  not  easy  for  Europeans  who  were 
never  out  of  their  own  country  to  conceive  an  ade 
quate  idea  of  these  people.  Even  in  the  least  fre 
quented  quarters  of  the  globe  there  is  not  a  nation 
so  stupid,  of  such  contracted  ideas,  and  weak,  both 
in  body  and  in  mind,  as  the  unhappy  Californians. 
Their  characteristics  are  stupidity  and  insensibility, 
want  of  knowledge  and  reflection,  inconstancy,  im 
petuosity,  and  blindness  of  appetite,  excessive  sloth, 
abhorrence  of  all  fatigue  of  every  kind,  however 
trifling  or  brutal, —  in  fine,  a  most  wretched  want  of 
everything  which  constitutes  the  real  man  and 
makes  him  rational,  inventive,  tractable,  and  useful 
to  himself  and  others."  All  of  which  goes  to  show 
that  climate  is  not  everything,  and  that  contact 
with  other  minds  and  other  people,  with  the  sifting 
that  rigorous  conditions  enforce,  may  outweigh  all 
the  advantages  of  the  fairest  climate.  The  highest 


124  THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    rADRE. 

development  comes  with  the  fewest  barriers  to 
migration,  to  competition,  and  to  the  spread  of 
ideas. 

The  destruction  of  the  missions  and  the  advent  of 
our  Anglo-Saxon  freedom  has  been  for  the  Indian 
and  his  kind  only  loss  and  wrong.  He  has  become 
an  alien  and  tramp,  with  his  half-brother,  the 
despised  Greaser. 

The  mission  fathers  left  no  place  for  idleness  on 
the  part  of  their  converts,  or  "  neophytes  " ;  nor  did 
they  make  much  provision  for  the  development  of 
the  individual.  The  Indians  were  to  work,  and  to 
work  hard  and  steadily,  for  the  glory  of  the  church 
and  the  prosperity  of  the  nation.  In  return  they 
were  insured  from  all  harm  in  this  world  and  in  the 
world  to  come.  The  rule  of  the  Padre  was  often 
severe,  sometimes  cruel,  but  not  demoralizing,  and 
the  Indians  reached  a  higher  grade  of  industry 
and  civilization  than  the  same  race  has  attained 
otherwise  before  or  since. 

Believing  that  the  use  of  the  rod  was  necessary 
to  the  Indians'  salvation,  the  Padres  were  in  no 
danger  of  sparing  it,  and  thus  spoiling  their  chil 
dren.  The  good  Father  Serra  would  as  "soon  have 
doubted  his  right  to  breathe  as  his  right  to  flog 
the  Indian  converts";  and  meek  and  quiet  though 


THE    STUBBORNNESS    OF   PAGANISM.        125 

these  converts  usually  were,  there  were  not  wanting 
times  when  they  turned  about  in  sullen  resistance. 
The  annals  of  some  of  the  missions  show  a  series  of 
events  that  may  well  have  discouraged  the  most 
enthusiastic  of  missionaries.  The  unconverted 
Indians,  or  "gentiles,"  of  Southern  California  were 
heathens  indeed,  and  they  made  repeated  attacks 
upon  the  missions  by  day,  or  stole  their  stock  or 
burned  their  houses  by  night.  Volleys  of  arrows 
not  unfrequently  greeted  the  priests  on  their  return 
from  morning  mass. 

In  San  Diego,  faith  in  the  power  of  gunpowder  to 
hurt  long  preceded  any  belief  in  the  power  of  the 
cross  to  save.  For  a  whole  year  after  the  mission 
was  founded,  not  a  convert  was  made.  The  sole 
San  Diego  Indian  in  Father  Serra's  service  was  a 
hired  interpreter,  who  did  not  have  a  particle  of 
reverence  for  his  employer's  work.  "  In  all  these 
missionary  annals  of  the  Northwest,"  says  Bancroft, 
"there  is  no  other  instance  where  paganism 
remained  so  long  stubborn  as  in  San  Diego." 

And  the  converts  made  at  such  cost  of  threats 
and  promises  were  always  ready  to  backslide.  It 
was  hard  to  convert  any  unless  they  subjugated  all. 
The  influence  of  the  many  outside  would  often 
stampede  the  few  within  the  fold. 


126  THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADRE. 

In  one  of  the  numerous  uprisings  at  San  Diego 
the  Fathers  were  victorious  over  the  Indians ;  the 
warriors  were  flogged,  and  thus  converted,  and 
their  four  chiefs  were  condemned  to  death.  The 
sentence  of  death,  according  to  Bancroft,  read  as 
follows : 

"  Deeming  it  useful  to  the  service  of  God,  the  king, 
and  the  public  good,  I  sentence  them  to  a  violent 
death  by  musket  shots,  on  the  llth  of  April,  at  9 
A.M.,  the  troops  to  be  present  at  the  execution,  under 
arms ;  and  also  all  the  Christian  rancherias  subject 
to  the  San  Diego  Mission,  that  they  may  be  warned 
to  act  righteously." 

To  the  priests  who  were  to  assist  at  the  last  sacra 
ment,  the  following  grim  directions  was  given : 

"  You  will  co-operate  for  the  good  of  their  souls, 
in  the  understanding  that  if  they  do  not  accept  the 
salutary  waters  of  holy  baptism,  they  die  on  Satur 
day  morning ;  and  if  they  do  accept,  they  die  all  the 
same." 

The  character  of  the  first  great  mission  chief, 
Junipero  Serra,  is  thus  summed  up  by  Bancroft  : 

"  All  his  energy  and  enthusiasm  were  directed  to 
the  performance  of  his  missionary  duties  as  out 
lined  in  the  regulations  of  his  order  and  the  instruc 
tion  of  his  superiors.  Limping  from  mission,  to 
mission,  with  a  lame  foot  that  must  never  be  cured, 


JUNIPERO    SERRA.  127 

fasting  much  and  passing  sleepless  nights,  depriv 
ing  himself  of  comfortable  clothing  and  nutritious 
food,  he  felt  that  he  was  imitating  the  saints  and 
martyrs  who  were  the  ideals  of  his  sickly  boyhood, 
and  in  recompense  of  abstinence  he  was  happy. 
He  was  kind-hearted  and  charitable  to  all,  but  most 
strict  in  his  enforcement  of  religious  duties.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  his  absolute  right 
to  flog  his  neophytes  for  any  slight  negligence  in 
matters  of  the  faith.  His  holy  desires  trembled 
within  him  like  earthquake  throbs.  In  his  eyes 
there  was  but  one  object  worth  living  for  —  the  per 
formance  of  religious  duty;  and  but  one  way  to 
accomplish  that  object  —  a  strict  and  literal  com 
pliance  with  Franciscan  rules.  He  could  never 
understand  that  there  was  anything  beyond  the 
narrow  field  of  his  vision.  He  could  apply  re 
ligious  enthusiasm  to  practical  affairs.  Because 
he  was  a  grand  missionary,  he  was  none  the  less 
a  money-maker  and  civilizer;  but  money-making 
and  civilizing  were  adjuncts  only  to  mission  work, 
and  all  not  for  his  glory,  but  for  the  glory  of  God." 

After  Junipero  Serra  came  a  saner  and  wiser,  if 
not  a  better,  man,  the  Padre  Fermin  Lasuen.  I 
need  not  go  into  details  in  regard  to  him  or  his  life. 
No  miracles  followed  his  path,  and  no  saint  made 
him  the  object  of  spectacular  intervention;  but 
his  gentle  earnestness  counted  for  more  in  the 


128  THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADRE. 

development  of  Old  California  than   that  of  any 
other  man.     Of  Lasuen,  Bancroft  says: 

"  In  him  were  united  the  qualities  that  make  up 
the  ideal  Padre,  without  taint  of  hypocrisy  or  cant. 
He  was  a  frank,  kind-hearted  old  man,  who  made 
friends  of  all  he  met.  Of  his  fervent  piety  there 
are  abundant  proofs,  and  his  piety  and  humility 
were  of  an  agreeable  type,  unobtrusive,  and  blended 
with  common  sense.  He  overcame  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  duty,  but  he  created  no  obstacles  for  the 
mere  sake  of  surmounting  them.  He  was  not  a 
man  to  limp  through  life  on  a  sore  leg  if  a  cure 
could  be  found.  .  .  .  First  among  the  Califor- 
nian  prelates  let  us  ever  rank  Fermin  de  Lasuen,  as 
a  friar  who  rose  above  his  environment  and  lived 
many  years  in  advance  of  his  times." 

Thirteen  years  after  the  serene  founding  of  the 
Mission  San  Francisco  came  the  first  shock  to  the 
community,  thus  noticed  in  a  letter  from  the  gov 
ernor  of  the  territory  to  the  comandante  at  San 
Francisco  : 

"  Whenever  there  may  arrive  at  the  Port  of  San 
Francisco  a  ship  named  the  Columbia,  said  to 
belong  to  General  Washington,  of  the  American 
States,  commanded  by  John  Kendrick,  which  sailed 
from  Boston  in  September,  1787,  bound  on  a  voyage 
of  discovery  to  the  Russian  establishments  on  the 
northern  coast  of  this  peninsula,  you  will  cause  the 


THE    RUSSIANS.  129 

said  vessel  to  be  examined  with  caution  and  deli 
cacy,  using  for  this  purpose  a  small  boat  which  you 
have  in  your  possession." 

Afterwards  another  enemy,  almost  as  dangerous 
as  the  Yankee,  appeared  in  the  shape  of  Russians 
from  Alaska.  They  brought  down  a  colony  of 
Kodiak  Indians,  or  Aleuts,  and  established  them 
selves  at  Fort  Ross,  north  of  San  Francisco.  The 
Spaniards  then  founded  the  missions  of  San  Rafael 
and  Solano  in  front  of  the  Russians,  to  head  them 
off,  as  the  priest  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  to  ward 
off  Satan.  Trading  with  the  Russians  was  forbid 
den,  but,  nevertheless,  the  Russian  vessels,  on  one 
pretext  or  another,  made  repeated  visits  to  the  Bay 
of  San  Francisco.  The  Spaniards  had  no  boats  in 
the  bay,  and  could  not  prevent  the  ingress  of  the 
Russian  and  American  traders.  One  of  the  singu 
lar  facts  in  connection  with  the  missions  is  that  the 
Padres  made  no  use  of  the  sea,  and  the  missions 
usually  kept  no  boats  at  all,  and  so  the  Spanish 
officials  were  forced  to  receive  in  friendliness  many 
encroachments  which  they  were  powerless  to  pre 
vent. 

In  1842,  as  the  seals  grew  scarce  around  Bodegas 
Head,  the  Russians,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the 
Spaniards,  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  they  came. 


130          THE    CALIFORNIA    OF    THE    PADRE. 

The  joy  of  the  missions  was  short-lived,  for  seven 
years  later  gold  was  discovered,  California  was 
ceded  to  the  United  States,  and  the  most  remarka 
ble  invasion  known  in  history  followed.  Over  the 
mountains,  across  the  plains,  by  the  Isthmus,  and 
by  the  Horn  they  came,  that  wonderful  procession 
which  Bret  Harte  has  made  so  familiar  to  us  — 
Truthful  James,  Tennessee's  Partner,  Jack  Hamlin, 
John  Oakhurst,  Flynn  of  Virginia,  Abner  Dean  of 
Angels,  Brown  of  Calaveras,  Yuba  Bill,  Sandy 
McGee,  the  Scheezicks,  the  Man  of  No  Account, 
and  all  the  rest.  And  the  California  of  the  gam 
bler  and  the  gold-seeker  succeeds  the  California 
of  the  Padre. 

Numerous  causes  had  meanwhile  contributed  to 
the  decline  of  the  Spanish  missions.  They  hao.  been 
supported  at  first  by  a  Pious  Fund,  obtained  by 
subscriptions  in  Mexico  and  Spain.  After  the  sep 
aration  of  these  two  countries,  this  fund  was  lost, 
its  interest  being  regularly  embezzled  by  Mexican 
officials,  and,  finally,  the  principal,  it  is  said,  was 
taken  in  one  lump  by  the  President,  Santa  Ana. 
Still  the  missions  were  able  to  hold  their  own  until 
the  Mexican  Government  removed  the  Indians 
from  the  control  of  the  Padres,  for  the  benefit,  I 
suppose,  of  the  "  Indian  ring."  The  secular  control 


DECLINE    OF    THE    MISSIONS.  131 

of  the  native  tribes  was,  iu  Mexican  hands,  an  utter 
failure.  The  Indians,  now  no  longer  compelled  to 
work,  no  longer  well  fed  and  comfortably  clothed, 
were  scattered  about  the  country  as  paupers  and 
tramps.  The  missions,  after  repeated  interferences 
of  this  sort,  fell  into  a  rapid  decline,  and  at  the  time 
that  California  was  ceded  to  the  United  States,  not 
one  of  them  was  in  successful  operation.  A  few  of 
the  churches  are  still  partly  occupied,  as  at  San  Luis 
Obispo,  San  Capistrano,  and  San  Miguel.  The  Mis 
sion  of  Santa  Barbara  is  still  intact,  and  has  yet  its 
little  bands  of  monks.  A  few,  like  San  Carlos,  have 
been  partially  saved  or  partially  restored,  thanks  to 
the  loving  interest  of  Father  Casanova  and  others; 
but  the  Indians  are  gone,  and  neither  wealth  nor 
influence  remains  with  the  missions.  Most  of  them 
are  crumbling  ruins,  and  have  already  taken  their 
place  as  curiosities  and  relics  of  the  past.  Some  of 
them,  as  the  noble  San  Antonio  de  Padua  and  the 
stately  San  Luis  Rey,  are  exquisitely  beautiful,  even 
in  ruins.  Of  others,  as  San  Rafael,  not  a  trace 
remains,  and  its  spot  can  be  kept  green  only  in 
memory.  It  is  said  that  at  San  Antonio,  a  mission 
once  numbering  fourteen  hundred  souls,  and  rear 
ing  the  finest  horses  in  California,  the  last  priest 
lived  all  alone  for  years,  and  supported  himself  by 


132  THE    CALIFORNIA     OF    THE    PADRE. 

raising  geese  and  selling  the  tiles  from  the  mission 
roof.  When  he  died,  ten  years  ago,  no  one  was  left 
to  care  for  his  beloved  mission,  which  is  rapidly 
falling  into  utter  decay. 

So  faded  away  the  California  of  the  Padre,  and 
left  no  stain  on  the  pages  of  our  history. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  JUPITER  PEN. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  JUPITER  PEN. 

IN  a  cleft  of  the  high  Alps  stands  the  Hospice  of 
the  Great  Saint  Bernard.  Its  tall,  cold,  stone 
buildings  are  half-buried  in  ice  in  the  winter,  while 
even  in  summer  the  winds,  dense  with  snow,  shriek 
and  howl  as  they  make  their  way  through  the  notch 
in  the  mountain.  Its  little  lake,  cold  and  dark,  frozen 
solid  in  winter,  is  covered  with  cakes  of  floating  ice 
under  the  sky  of  July.  The  scanty  grass  around 
it  forms  a  thick,  low  turf,  which  is  studded  with 
bodiless  blue  gentians,  primroses,  and  other  Alpine 
flowers.  Overhanging  the  lake  are  the  frost-bitten 
crags  of  the  Mountain  of  Death;  and  the  other 
mountains  about,  though  less  dismally  named, 
are  not  more  cheerful  to  the  traveler.  Along  the 
lake  margin  winds  the  narrow  bridle-path,  which 
follows  rushing  rivulets  in  zigzags  down  steep  flower- 
carpeted  slopes  to  the  pine  woods  of  Saint  Remy, 
far  below.  Among  the  pines  the  path  widens  to  a 
wagon-road,  whence  it  descends  through  green  pas 
tures,  purple  with  autumnal  crocus,  past  beggarly 

villages,  whose  houses  crowd  together,  like  fright- 
is? 


138  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

ened  cattle  in  a  herd,  through  beech  woods,  vine 
yards,  and  grain-fields,  till  at  last  it  comes  to  its 
rest  amid  the  high  stone  walls  of  the  old  city  of 
Aosta,  named  for  Augustus  Ca3sar.  Above  Aosta 
are  the  sources  of  the  river  Po,  one  of  the  chief  of 
these  being  the  Dora  Baltea,  in  a  deep  gorge  half-hid 
by  chestnut-trees.  It  is  twenty  miles  from  the  lake 
to  the  river  —  twenty  miles  of  wild  mountain  in 
cline —  twenty  miles  from  Switzerland  to  Italy, 
from  the  eternal  snows  and  faint-colored  flowers  of 
the  frigid  zone,  to  the  dust,  and  glare  of  the  torrid. 

The  Hospice  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard  stands 
thus  in  a  narrow  mountain  notch,  with  only  room 
for  itself  and  its  lake,  while  above  it,  on  either 
side,  are  jagged  heights  dashed  with  snow-banks, 
their  summits  frosted  with  eternal  ice. 

It  is  a  large  stone  building,  three  stories  high, 
beside  the  two  attic  floors  of  the  steep,  sloping  roof. 
A  great  square  house  of  cold,  gray  stone,  as  unat 
tractive  as  a  barn  or  a  woolen-mill,  plain,  cold,  and 
solid.  At  one  end  of  the  main  building  is  a  stone 
addition  precisely  like  the  building  itself.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  bridle-path  is  an  outbuilding  —  a 
tall  stone  shed,  "  the  Hotel  of  Saint  Louis,"  three 
stories  high,  as  plain  and  uncompromising  as  the 
Hospice  is.  The  front  door  of  the  main  building 


THE    DOGS    OF   SAINT    BERNARD.  141 

is  on  the  side  away  from  the  lake.  From  this 
door  down  the  north  side  of  the  mountain  the  path 
descends  steeply  from  the  crest  of  the  Pennine  Alps 
to  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  even  more  swiftly  than 
the  path  on  the  south  side  drops  downward  to  the 
valley  of  the  Po. 

As  one  approaches  the  Hospice  he  is  met  by  a 
noisy  band  of  great  dogs,  yellow  and  white,  with 
the  loudest  of  bass  voices,  barking  incessantly,  eager 
to  pull  you  out  of  the  snow,  and  finding  that  you 
do  not  need  this  sort  of  rescue,  apparently  equally 
eager  to  tear  you  to  pieces  for  having  deceived 
them.  Classical  names  these  dogs  still  bear  —  names 
worthy  of  the  mountain  long  sacred  to  Jupiter,  on 
which  the  Hospice  is  built  —  Jupitere,  Junon,  Mars, 
Vulcan,  Pluton,  the  inevitable  Leon,  and  the  in 
domitable  Turc,  and  all  have  for  the  traveler  such 
a  greeting  as  only  a  band  of  big,  idle  dogs  can  give. 
These  dogs  are  not  so  large  nor  so  well  kept  as  the 
Saint  Bernard  dogs  we  see  in  American  cities,  but 
they  have  the  same  great  head,  huge  feet  and  legs, 
and  the  same  intelligent  eye,  as  if  they  were  capa 
ble  of  doing  anything  if  they  would  only  stop  bark 
ing  long  enough  to  think  of  something  else. 

The  inside  of  the  house  corresponds  to  its  outer 
appearance.  Thick,  heavy  triple  doors  admit  you 


142  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PFN. 

to  a  cold  hall  floored  with  stone.  Adjoining  this  is 
a  parlor,  likewise  floored  with  the  coldest  of  stone, 
and  this  parlor  is  used  as  the  dining-room  and 
waiting-room  for  travelers.  Its  walls  are  hung  with 
pictures,  many  of  them  valuable  works  of  art,  the 
gifts  of  former  guests,  while  its  chilly  air  is  scantily 
warmed  by  a  small  fireplace,  on  which  whoever 
will  may  throw  pine  boughs  and  fragments  of  the 
spongy  wood  of  the  fir.  By  this  fire  the  guests  take 
their  turn  in  getting  partly  warmed,  then  pass 
away  to  shiver  in  the  outer  wastes  of  the  room. 

In  this  room  the  travelers  are  served  with  plain 
repasts,  princes  and  peasants  alike,  coarse  bread, 
red  wine,  coffee,  and  boiled  meat;  everything  about 
the  table  neat  and  clean,  but  with  no  pretense  at 
pampering  the  appetite.  You  take  whatever  you 
please  without  money  and  without  price.  Should 
you  care  to  pay  your  wray,  or  care  to  help  on  the 
work  of  the  Hospice,  you  can  leave  your  mite,  be  it 
large  or  small,  in  a  box  near  the  door  of  the  chapel. 
The  guest-rooms  are  plain  but  comfortable  —  a  few 
religious  pictures  on  the  walls;  tall,  old-fashioned 
beasteads,  with  abundant  feather-beds  and  warm 
blankets.  For  one  night  only  all  persons  who  come 
are  welcome.  The  next  day  all  alike,  unless  sick 
or  crippled,  must  pass  on. 


THE    MONKS    OF    THE    HOSPICE.  145 

There  are  about  a  dozen  monks  in  the  Hospice 
now,  all  of  them  young  men,  devoted  to  their  work, 
and  some  of  them  at  least  intelligent  and  gener 
ously  educated.  The  hard  climate  and  the  expos 
ure  of  winter  breaks  down  their  health  before  they 
are  old.  When  they  become  unable  to  carry  on 
the  duties  of  the  Hospice,  they  are  sent  down  the 
mountains  to  Martigny,  while  others  come  up  to 
take  their  places.  There  are  beautiful  days  in  the 
summer-time,  but  no  season  of  the  year  is  free  from 
severity.  Even  in  July  and  August  the  ground  is 
half  the  time  white  with  snow.  Terrible  blasts 
sweep  through  the  mountains;  for  the  commonest 
summer  shower  in  the  valleys  below  is,  in  these 
heights,  a  raging  snow-storm,  and  its  snow-laden 
winds  are  never  faced  with  impunity. 

"We  visited  the  Hospice  in  July,  1890.  We  drove 
from  Aosta  up  to  Saint  Remy,  a  little  village  crowded 
in  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  where  the  pine- 
trees  cease.  The  light  rain  which  followed  us  out 
from  Saint  Remy  changed  to  snow  as  we  came  up 
the  rocky  slopes.  By  the  time  we  reached  the  Hos 
pice  it  became  a  blinding  sleet.  The  ground  was 
only  whitened,  so  that  the  dogs  who  came  barking 
to  meet  us  had  no  need  to  dig  us  out  from  the  drifts. 
In  this  they  seemed  disappointed,  and  barked  again. 


146  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

Once  inside  the  walls,  one  cared  not  to  go  out. 
Many  travelers  came  up  the  mountain  that  day. 
Among  them  were  a  man  and  his  wife,  Italian  peas 
ants,  who  had  been  over  the  mountains  to  spend  a 
day  or  two  with  friends  in  some  village  on  the 
Swiss  side,  and  were  now  returning  home.  Man 
and  woman  were  dressed  in  their  peasants'  best, 
and  with  them  was  a  little  girl,  some  four  years  old. 
The  child  carried  a  toy  horse  in  her  hands,  the  gift 
of  some  friend  below.  As  they  toiled  up  the  steep 
path  in  the  blinding  snow,  all  of  them  thinly  clad 
and  dressed  only  for  summer,  they  seemed  chilled 
through  and  through,  while  the  child  was  almost 
frozen.  The  monks  came  out  to  meet  them,  took 
the  child  in  their  arms,  and  brought  her  and  her 
parents  to  the  fire,  covered  her  shoulders  with  a 
warm  shawl,  and,  after  feeding  them,  sent  them 
down  the  mountain  to  their  home  in  the  valley, 
warmed  and  filled.  This  was  a  simple  act,  the 
easiest  of  all  their  many  duties,  but  it  was  a  very 
touching  one.  Such  duties  make  up  the  simple 
round  of  their  lives. 

In  the  storms  of  winter  the  work  of  the  Hospice 
takes  a  sterner  cast.  From  November  to  May  the 
gales  are  incessant.  The  snow  piles  up  in  billows, 
and  in  the  whirling  clouds  all  traces  of  human  oc- 


CROSSING    THE    SAINT    BERNARD.  149 

cupation  are  obliterated.    There  are  many  peasants 
and   workingmen   who   go   forth   from   Italy  into 
Switzerland  and  France,  and  who  wish  to  return 
home  when  their  summer  labors  are  over.     To  these 
the  pass  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard  is  the  only  route 
which  they  can  afford.     The  long  railway  rides  and 
the  great  distances  of  the  Simplon  and  the  Saint 
Gotthard  would  mean  the  using  up  of  their  scanty 
earnings.     If  they  go  home  at  all,  they  must  trust 
their  lives  to  the  storms  and  the  monks,  and  take 
the  path  which  leads  by  the  Hospice.     So  they  come 
over  day  after  day,  the  winter  long.  No  matter  how 
great  the  storm,  the  dogs  are  on  the  watch.     In  the 
last  winter,  of  the  many  who  came,  not  one  was  lost. 
This  is  the  Hospice  as  it  stands  to-day.     I  come 
next  to  tell  its  story  and  the  story  of  its  founder. 
I  tell  it,  in  the  most  part,  from  a  little  volume  in 
French,  which  some  modest  and  nameless  monk 
of  the  Hospice  has  compiled  from  the  old  Latin 
records  of  the  monks  who  have  gone  before  him. 
This  volume  he  has  printed,  as  he  says,  "  for  the 
use  of  the  faithful  in  the  parishes  which  lie  next 
the  Alps,  and  which,  in  his  time,  the  good  Saint 
Bernard  *  passed  through."     This  story  I  must  tell 


*  St.  Bernard  de  Menthon  must  not  be  confounded  with  Bernard  de 
Clairvaux,  born  in  1091,  the  preacher  of  the  Crusades. 


150  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

in  his  own  spirit,  in  some  degree  at  least,  else  1 
should  have  no  right  to  tell  it  at  all. 

In  the  tenth  century,  he  informs  us,  the  dark 
ages  of  Europe  could  scarcely  have  been  darker. 
Weak  and  wicked  kings,  the  dregs  of  the  worn- 
out  blood  of  Charlemagne,  misruled  France,  while 
along  the  northern  coast  the  Normans  robbed  and 
plundered  at  their  will.  Even  the  church  had  her 
share  of  crimes  and  scandals.  In  this  dark  time, 
says  the  chronicle,  "  God,  who  had  promised  to  be 
with  His  own  to  the  end  of  the  centuries,  did  not 
fail  to  raise  up  in  that  darkness  great  saints  who 
should  teach  the  people  to  lift  their  eyes  toward 
heaven;  to  rise  above  afflictions;  not  to  take  the 
form  of  the  world  for  a  permanent  habitation,  and 
to  suffer  its  pains  with  patience,  in  the  prospect  of 
eternity." 

It  happened  that  in  the  days  of  King  Raoul,  in 
the  Castle  of  Menthon,  on  the  north  bank  of  the 
lake  of  Annecy,  in  Savoy,  in  the  year  923,  Bernard 
de  Menthon  was  born.  His  father  was  the  Baron 
Eichard,  famous  among  the  noblemen  of  the  time, 
while  his  mother,  the  Lady  Bernoline,  was  illustri 
ous  for  virtues.  The  young  Bernard  was  a  fair 
child,  and  his  history,  as  seen  from  the  perspective 
of  his  monkish  historian,  shows  that  even  in  his 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    GOOD    MONK.  153 

earliest  youth  he  was  predestined  for  saintship. 
Even  before  he  could  walk,  the  little  child  would 
join  his  hands  in  the  attitude  of  supplication,  and 
murmur  words  which  might  have  been  prayers. 
While  still  very  young,  he  brought  in  a  book  one 
day  and  asked  his  mother  to  teach  him  to  read,  and 
when  she  would  not,  or  could  not,  he  wept,  for  the 
books  in  which  even  then  he  delighted  were  the 
prayer-books  of  the  church. 

He  grew  up  bright  and  beautiful,  and  his  father 
was  proud  of  him,  and  determined  that  he  should 
take  his  part  in  public  life.  But  Bernard's  thoughts 
ran  in  other  channels.  He  spent  his  moments  in 
copying  psalms,  and  in  writing  down  the  words  of 
divine  service  which  he  heard.  Even  in  his  seventh 
year  he  began  to  practice  austerities  and  self-casti- 
gation,  which  he  kept  up  through  his  life.  He 
chose  for  his  model  Saint  Nicholas,  the  saint  who 
through  the  ages  has  been  kind  to  children.  Him 
he  resolved  to  imitate,  and  to  walk  always  in  his 
steps. 

The  University  of  Paris  had  been  founded  by 
Charlemagne  more  than  a  century  before,  and  this 
university  was  then  the  Mecca  of  all  ambitious 
youth.  To  the  University  of  Paris  his  father 
decided  to  send  him.  But  his  mother  feared  the 


154  THE    CONQUEST    OF  JUPITER    PEN. 

influence  of  the  gay  capital,  and  wished  to  keep 
Bernard  by  her  side.  But  the  boy  said,  "Virtue 
has  too  deep  a  root  in  my  heart,  mother,  for  the  air 
of  Paris  to  tarnish  it.  I  will  bring  back  more  of 
science,  but  not  less  of  purity."  And  to  Paris  he 
went.  Here  he  studied  law,  to  please  his  father, 
and  theology,  to  please  himself.  "As  Tobias  lived 
faithful  in  Nineveh,"  so  the  chronicle  says,  "  thus 
lived  Bernard  in  Paris."  In  the  midst  of  snares 
unnumbered,  he  only  redoubled  his  austerities  — 
"in  sanctitate  persistens,  studiosus  valde"  so  the  record 
says. 

His  thoughts  ran  on  the  misery  of  humanity, 
which  he  measured  by  the  abasement  to  which 
Christ  had  submitted  in  order  to  effect  its  redemp 
tion.  A  great  influence  in  his  life  came  from  Ger 
main,  his  tutor,  a  man  who  had  lived  the  life  of  a 
scholar  in  the  world,  and  who  had  at  last  with 
drawn  to  sanctity  and  prayer.  Although  Bernard 
knew  that  his  father  expected  a  brilliant  future 
for  him,  and  that  he  hoped  to  effect  for  him  a  mar 
riage  in  some  family  of  the  great  of  those  days, 
yet  he  took  upon  himself  the  vow  of  celibacy. 
"God  lives  in  virgin  souls,"  he  said.  There  is  a 
record  of  an  argument  with  Germain,  in  which  his 
tutor  tries  to  test  the  strength  of  his  purpose.  Ger- 


GERMAIN   AND    BERNARD.  157 

main  tells  him  that  even  in  a  monastery  evil  can 
not  be  excluded,  and  that  many  even  of  the  most 
austere  monks  live  lives  of  petty  jealousy  and 
ignoble  ambition.  "There  are  many,"  Germain 
says,  "  who  are  saved  in  the  struggle  of  the  world 
who  would  be  shipwrecked  in  a  monastery."  But 
Bernard  is  steadfast  in  his  choice.  "  Happy  are 
those  who  have  chosen  to  dwell  in  God's  court, 
and  to  sleep  on  His  estate."  Thus  day  and  night 
he  struggles  against  all  temptations  of  worldly 
glory  or  pleasure. 

Then  his  father  calls  him  home;  and  when  he 
has  returned  to  Annecy,  Bernard  finds  that  every 
preparation  has  been  made  for  his  approaching 
wedding  with  the  daughter  of  the  great  Lord  of 
Miolans.  " Sponsa  pulchra"  beautiful  bride,  this 
young  woman  was,  according  to  the  record,  and 
doubtless  this  was  true.  The  attitude  of  Bernard 
toward  this  marriage  his  father  and  mother  could 
not  understand.  He  held  back  constantly,  and 
urged  all  sorts  of  objections  to  its  immediate  con 
summation,  but  on  no  ground  which  seemed  to 
them  reasonable.  So  the  wedding-day  was  set. 
The  house  was  full  of  guests.  Every  gate  and  door 
of  the  castle  was  crowded  by  armed  retainers,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  escape.  Bernard  retired  to 


158  THE    CONQUEST    OF  JUPITER    PEN. 

his  own  room,  and  in  the  oldest  manuscripts  are 
given  the  words  of  his  prayer  : 

"  My  adorable  Creator,  Thou  who  with  thy  celes 
tial  light  enlightened  those  who  invoke  with  faith 
and  confidence,  and  Thou  my  Jesus,  Divine  Re 
deemer  of  men  and  Saviour  of  souls,  lend  a  favor 
able  ear  to  my  humble  prayer;  spread  on  thy 
servant  the  treasures  of  your  infinite  mercy.  I 
know  that  Thou  never  abandonest  those  who  place 
in  you  their  hope;  deliver  me,  I  supplicate  Thee, 
from  the  snares  which  the  world  have  offered  me. 
Break  these  nets  in  which  the  world  tries  to  take 
me;  permit  not  that  the  enemy  prevail  over  thy 
servant,  that  adulation  may  enfeeble  my  heart.  I 
abandon  myself  entirely  to  Thee.  I  throw  myself 
into  the  arms  of  thy  infinite  mercy,  hoping  that 
Thou  wilt  save  me,  and  wilt  reject  not  my  demand." 

Then  to  the  good  Saint  Nicholas: 

"Amiable  shepherd,  faithful  guide,  holy  priest, 
thou  who  art  my  protector  and  my  refuge,  together 
with  God,  and  His  holy  mother,  the  happy  Virgin 
Mary,  obtain  me,  I  pray  thee,  by  thy  merits,  the 
grace  of  triumph  over  the  obstacles  the  world  op 
poses  to  my  vow  of  consecrating  myself  to  God 
without  reserve — in  return  for  the  property,  the 
pleasures,  and  honors  here  below,  of  which  I  aban 
don  my  part,  obtain  me  spiritual  good  all  the 
course  of  my  life,  and  eternal  happiness  after  my 
death." 


BERNARD    AND    SAINT    NICHOLAS.  159 

Then  Bernard  retired  to  sleep,  and  in  a  dream 
Saint  Nicholas  stood  before  him  and  uttered  these 
words: 

"  Bernard,  servant  of  God  the  Lord,  who  never 
betrays  those  who  put  their  confidence  in  Him, 
calls  thee  to  follow  Him.  An  immortal  crown 
is  reserved  for  thee.  Leave  at  once  thy  father's 
house  and  go  to  Aosta.  There  in  the  cathedral 
thou  shalt  meet  an  old  man  called  Pierre.  He  will 
welcome  thee;  thou  shalt  live  with  him,  and  he 
shall  teach  thee  the  road  thou  should  traverse.  For 
my  part,  I  shall  be  thy  protector,  and  will  not  for 
an  instant  abandon  thee." 

Then  Bernard  opened  his  eyes  and  the  vision 
had  disappeared.  He  was  overcome  with  joy.  His 
resolution  was  taken.  Though  he  knew  no  way 
out  of  the  castle,  nor  from  the  bedroom  in  the 
tower,  in  which  he  had  been  locked  by  his  thought 
ful  father,  yet  he  was  ready  to  go. 

Taking  up  a  pen,  he  wrote  to  his  father  this 
letter: 

"Very  dear  parents,  rejoice  with  me  that  the 
Lord  calls  me  to  His  service.  I  follow  Him  to 
arrive  sooner  at  the  port  of  salvation,  the  sole 
object  of  my  vows.  Do  not  worry  about  me,  nor 
take  the  trouble  to  seek  me.  I  renounce  the  mar 
riage,  which  was  ever  against  my  will.  I  renounce 
all  that  concerns  the  world.  All  my  desires  turn 


160  THE    CONQUEST    OF  JUPITER    PEN. 

toward  heaven,  whither  I  would  arrive.    I  take  the 
road  this  minute.  BERNARD  DE  MENTHON." 

Laying  the  letter  on  the  table,  he  soon  found 
himself  on  the  way  outside  the  castle  grounds,  and 
along  this  path  he  hurried,  over  the  mountain 
passes,  toward  the  city  of  Aosta.  So  say  the  oldest 
manuscripts ;  but  in  the  later  stories  the  details  are 
more  fully  described.  From  these  it  would  appear 
that  Bernard  leaped  from  the  window  eighteen  or 
twenty  feet,  his  naked  feet  striking  on  a  bare  rock. 
On  he  ran  through  the  night;  on  over  dark  and 
lonely  paths  in  a  country  still  uninhabited;  over 
the  stony  fields  and  wild  watercourses  of  the 
Graian  Alps,  and  when  the  morning  dawned  he 
found  himself  in  the  city  of  Aosta,  a  hundred 
miles  from  Annecy. 

In  an  old  painting  the  manner  of  his  escape  is 
shown  in  detail.  As  he  drops  from  the  window  he 
is  supported  by  Saint  Nicholas  on  the  one  side,  and 
an  angel  on  the  other,  and  underneath  the  painting 
is  the  legend  "  Emporte  par  Miracle."  It  is  said, 
too,  that  in  former  times  the  prints  of  his  hands 
on  the  stone  window-sill,  and  of  his  naked  feet  on 
the  rock  below,  were  both  plainly  visible.  Eight 
hundred  years  later  the  good  Father  Pierre  Verre 
celebrated  mass  in  the  old  room  in  which  Bernard 


THE    LADY    OF    MIOLANS.  161 

was  confined ;  and  he  reports  at  that  time  there  was 
both  on  the  window-sill  and  on  the  rock  below 
only  the  merest  trace  of  the  imprints  left  by  Ber 
nard.  One  could  not  then  "  even  be  sure  that  they 
were  made  by  hand  or  foot."  But  the  chronicle 
wisely  says:  "  Time,  in  effacing  these  marks  and 
rendering  them  doubtful,  has  never  effaced  the 
tradition  of  the  fact  among  the  people  of  Annecy." 
In  the  morning,  consternation  reigned  within  the 
castle.  The  Lord  of  Menthon  was  filled  with  dis 
gust,  shame,  and  confusion.  The  Lord  of  Miolans 
thought  that  he  and  his  daughter  were  the  victims 
of  a  trick,  and  he  would  take  no  explanation  or 
excuse.  Only  the  sword  might  efface  the  stain  upon 
his  honor.  The  marriage  feast  would  have  ended 
in  a  scene  of  blood  were  it  not,  according  to  the 
chronicle,  that  "  God,  always  admirable  in  His 
saints,"  sent  as  an  angel  of  peace  the  very  person 
who  had  been  most  cruelly  wronged.  The  Lady  of 
Miolans,  "  sponsa  pulchra "  beyond  a  doubt,  took 
up  the  cause  of  her  delinquent  bridegroom,  whom 
God  had  called,  she  said,  to  take  some  nobler  part^ 
When  peace  had  been  made,  she  followed  his 
example,  taking  the  veil  in  a  neighboring  convent, 
where,  after  many  years  of  virtuous  living,  she  died, 
full  of  days  and  full  of  merits.  "  Sponsa  ipsius"  so 


162  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

the  record  says,  "  in  qua  sande  et  religiose  dies  suos 
clausit ";  a  bride  who  in  sanctity  and  religious  days 
closed  her  life. 

Meanwhile,  beyond  the  Graian  Alps  and  beyond 
the  reach  of  his  father's  information,  Bernard  was 
safe.  In  Aosta  he  was  kindly  received  by  Pierre, 
the  Archdeacon.  He  entered  into  the  service  of  the 
church,  and  there,  in  spite  of  his  humility  and  his 
self-abasement,  he  won  the  favor  of  all  with  whom 
he  had  to  deal.  "  God  wills,"  the  chronicle  says, 
"  that  His  ministers  should  shine  by  their  sanctity 
and  their  science."  "Saint  Paul  commends  prudence, 
gravity,  modesty,  unselfishness,  and  hospitality," 
and  to  these  precepts  Bernard  was  ever  faithful. 
He  lived  in  the  simplest  way,  like  a  hermit  in  his 
personal  relations,  but  never  out  of  the  life  of  the 
world.  He  was  not  a  man  eager  to  save  his  own 
soul  only,  but  the  bodies  and  souls  of  his  neighbors. 
He  dressed  in  the  plainest  garb.  He  drank  from  a 
rude  wooden  cup.  Wine  he  never  touched,  and 
water  but  rarely.  The  juice  of  bitter  herbs  was  his 
beverage,  and  by  every  means  possible  he  strove  to 
reduce  his  body  to  servitude.  When  he  came,  years 
later,  to  his  deathbed,  it  was  his  sole  regret  that  it 
was  a  bed  where  he  was  to  die,  instead  of  the  bare 
boards  on  which  he  was  wont  to  sleep. 


BERNARD    AT    AOSTA.  163 

His  fame  as  a  preacher  spread  far  and  wide. 
There  are  many  traditions  of  his  eloquence,  and 
the  memory  of  his  words  was  fondly  cherished 
wherever  his  sweet,  rich  voice  was  heard.  "  From 
the  mountains  of  Savoy  to  Milan  and  Turin,  and 
even  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva,"  says  the  chronicle, 
"  his  memory  was  dear."  So,  in  due  time,  after  the 
death  of  Pierre,  Bernard  was  made  Archdeacon  of 
Aosta. 

In  these  times  the  high  Alps  were  rilled  with 
Saracen  brigands  and  other  heathen  freebooters, 
who  celebrated  in  the  mountain  fastnesses  their 
monstrous  rites.  In  the  mountains  above  Aosta  the 
god  Pen  had  long  been  worshiped ;  the  word  pen  in 
Celtic  meaning  the  highest.  Later,  Julius  Caesar 
conquered  these  wild  tribes,  and  imposed  upon  them 
the  religion  of  the  Roman  Empire.  A  statue  of 
Jupiter  ("  Jove  optima  maxima")  was  set  up  in  the 
mountain  in  the  place  of  the  idol  Pen.  Afterwards, 
by  way  of  compromise,  the  Romans  permitted  the 
two  to  become  one,  and  the  people  worshiped  Jovis 
Pennius  (Jupiter  Pen),  the  great  god  of  the  highest 
mountains.  A  statue  of  Jupiter  Pen  was  set  up 
by  the  side  of  the  lake  in  the  great  pass  of  the 
mountain ;  and  from  Jupiter  Pen  these  mountains 
took  the  name  of  Pennine  Alps,  which  they  bear  to 


164  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

this  day.  The  pass  itself  was  called  Mons  Jo  vis,  the 
Mountain  of  Jove,  and  this,  in  due  time,  became 
shortened  to  Mont  Joux.  Through  this  pass  of 
Mont  Joux  the  armies  of  every  nation  have  marched, 
the  heroes  of  every  age,  from  Saint  Peter,  who,  the 
legend  says,  came  over  in  the  year  57,  down  to 
Napoleon,  who  passed  nearly  eighteen  centuries 
later,  on  a  much  less  worthy  errand.  The  Hotel 
"  Dejeuner  de  Napoleon,"  in  the  little  village  of 
"  Bourg  Saint  Pierre,"  recalls  in  its  name  the  story 
of  both  these  visits. 

In  the  earliest  days  a  refuge  hut  was  built  by  the 
side  of  the  statue  of  Jupiter  Pen.  In  the  early  pil 
grimages  to  Rome  this  became  a  place  of  some  im 
portance.  Later  on,  marauding  armies  of  Goths, 
Saracens,  and  Hungarians,  successively  passing 
through,  destroyed  this  refuge.  In  the  days  of  Ber 
nard  the  pass  was  filled  with  a  horde  of  brigands, 
French,  Italians,  Saracens,  and  Jews,  who  had  cast 
aside  all  religious  faith  of  their  fathers,  and  had 
re-established  the  worship  of  the  demon  in  the  tem 
ple  of  Jupiter  Pen. 

The  old  manuscripts  tell  us  that  in  the  middle 
of  the  tenth  century  the  demons  were  in  full 
sway  on  these  mountains ;  that  through  the  mouth 
of  the  statue  of  Jupiter  the  worst  of  lies  and  bias- 


THE    EYE    OF   JOVE.  165 

phemies  were  spoken  to  those  who  came  to  con 
sult  it.  These  worshipers  of  strange  old  gods  lived 
by  plunder,  and  exacted  toll  of  all  who  came 
through  the  pass.  The  same  conditions  existed 
on  the  Graian  Alps  to  the  southward.  On  one 
of  these  mountain  passes,  some  fifty  miles  from 
Mont  Joux,  there  lived  a  rich  man  named  Poly- 
carpe.  He,  too,  did  homage  to  Jupiter,  and  on  the 
summit  of  a  tall  column  which  he  built  in  the 
pass  he  had  placed  a  splendid  diamond,  which  he 
called  the  "  Eye  of  Jove."  People  came  from  great 
distances  to  be  healed  by  its  magic  glance,  and  the 
mountain  on  which  he  dwelt  was  the  mountain  of 
the  Columna  Jovis.  This  became  changed,  in  time, 
to  Colonne  Joux,  the  Mountain  of  the  Column  of 
Jove.  And  the  demons  of  these  two  heights,  the 
Mountain  of  Jove  and  the  Column  of  Jove,  sent 
down  their  baleful  call  of  defiance  to  the  valley  over 
which  Bernard  ruled  as  Archdeacon  of  Aosta. 

It  came  to  pass  that  a  troop  of  ten  French  travel 
ers  crossed  over  the  pass  of  Mont  Joux.  In  the  pass 
they  were  attacked  by  marauders,  and  one  of  their 
number  was  carried  away  captive.  When  they 
came  down  to  Aosta,  Bernard,  the  Archdeacon, 
fearlessly  offered  to  go  back  with  them  to  attack  the 
giant  of  the  mountain,  to  rescue  their  friend,  and  to 


166  THE    CONQUEST    OF  JUPITER    PEN. 

replace  the  standard  of  the  cross  over  the  altar  of 
the  demon. 

That  night,  so  says  the  old  chronicle,  Saint  Nich 
olas  appeared  to  him  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim  and 
said :  "  Bernard,  let  us  attack  these  mountains.  We 
shall  put  the  demon  to  flight.  We  shall  overturn 
this  statue  of  Jupiter,  which  the  demons  have  taken 
possession  of  to  bring  trouble  among  Christians. 
We  will  destroy  it,  and  we  will  destroy  the  column 
and  its  diamond,  and  in  their  place  we  will  build 
two  refuges  for  the  use  of  the  pilgrims  who  cross 
the  two  mountains.  Go  thou,  as  the  tenth  one  in 
this  band ;  then  wilt  thou  conjure  the  demons. 
Thou  shalt  bind  the  statue  with  a  blessed  stole,  and 
its  ruins  will  mingle  with  the  chaos  of  the  moun 
tains.  Thus  shalt  thou  destroy  the  power  of  evil  to 
the  day  of  judgment." 

And  in  proof  of  the  thoroughness  with  which  Ber 
nard  performed  his  work,  it  is  told  that  a  spiritual 
ist  who  took  pleasure  in  tipping  tables  came  through 
the  pass  in  1857.  The  monks  were  incredulous  of 
his  powers,  and  he  wished  to  convince  them  by 
an  actual  experience.  His  efforts  were  all  in  vain. 
The  tables,  the  record  tells  us,  were  quiet  as  the 
rocks.  The  traveler,  astonished,  said :  "  This  is 
the  first  time  they  have  failed  to  obey  me."  And 


THE     WHITE    STOLE    AND     THE    DEMON.       167 

thus,  says  the  record,  the  pledge  of  Saint  Nicholas 
was  accomplished.  The  enemy  had  never  more  an 
entrance  into  the  mountain. 

When  Bernard  and  his  followers  reached  Mont 
Joux,  they  found  the  mountain  filled  with  fog  and 
storm,  but  his  heart  was  undaunted.  Passing 
boldly  between  the  guards  of  the  temple,  he  flung, 
so  the  story  says,  his  blessed  stole  over  the  neck  of 
the  statue  of  Jupiter.  It  changed  at  once  into  an 
iron  chain,  against  which  the  statue,  now  become 
a  huge  demon-monster,  struggled  in  vain.  The 
good  man  overturned  it  and  flung  it  at  his  feet. 
With  the  same  chain  he  bound  the  high  priest  who 
guarded  the  demon.  The  struggle  was  short,  but 
decisive.  In  a  few  minutes,  so  the  chronicle  says, 
Bernard  had  banished  the  demon  of  Mont  Joux  and 
his  accomplices  to  eternal  snow  and  ice  to  the  end 
of  time,  and  had  commanded  them  to  cease  forever 
their  evil  doings  on  the  mountain. 

An  old  painting  in  the  Hospice  shows  this  scene 
in  vivid  portrait.  Bernard  stands  erect  and  fear 
less,  his  fine  face  lit  up  by  celestial  zeal,  his  bare 
head  surrounded  by  a  halo,  a  pilgrim's  staff  in  his 
right  hand,  the  stole,  now  become  a  chain,  in  his 
left,  while  one  foot  is  on  the  breast  of  the  demon, 
which  gasps  helpless  at  his  feet.  The  demon  has 


168  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

the  body  of  a  man,  covered  with  a  wolf's  rough, 
shaggy  hair,  his  fingers  and  toes  ending  in  sharp 
claws,  a  long  tail,  rough  and  scaly,  like  the  tail  of  a 
rat,  coiled  snake-like  above  his  legs,  the  head  and 
ears  of  a  wolf,  the  horns  of  a  goat,  and  on  his  back 
an  indefinable  outgrowth,  perhaps  the  framework 
of  a  horrible  pair  of  wings,  its  long  tongue  thrust 
out  from  between  its  bloody  teeth.  He  was  cer 
tainly  a  gruesome  creature. 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass  in  the  year  970,  in  the 
place  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Pen,  but  at  the  other 
end  of  the  lake,  and  in  the  very  summit  of  the  pass, 
was  built  the  Hospice  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard. 
From  that  day  to  this,  almost  a  thousand  years, 
the  work  of  doing  good  to  men  has  been  humbly 
and  patiently  carried  on. 

Not  long  afterward,  in  a  similar  way,  Bernard 
attacked  the  Graian  Alps,  overthrew  the  column  of 
Jupiter,  crushed  its  bright  diamond  to  the  finest 
dust,  which  he  scattered  in  the  winds,  and  built 
in  its  place  a  second  Hospice,  which,  with  the  pass, 
has  borne  ever  since  the  name  of  the  Little  Saint 
Bernard. 

Silver  and  gold,  the  builders  of  this  Hospice  had 
none.  Ever  since  the  beginning,  they  have  exer 
cised  their  charities  at  the  expense  of  those  who 


SAINT    BERNARD    AND   THE    DEMON. 


DEGREES    IN    CHARITY.  171 

cared  for  the  Lord's  work.  All  who  pass  by  are 
treated  alike.  Those  who  are  received  into  the 
Hospice  can  leave  much  or  little  —  something  or 
nothing,  whatever  they  please, —  to  carry  the  same 
same  help  to  others. 

In  the  book  of  the  good  Saint  Francis  de  Sales 
long  ago,  so  the  chronicle  says,  these  words  were 
written : 

"  There  are  many  degrees  in  charity.  To  lend 
to  the  poor,  this  is  the  first  degree.  To  give  to  the 
poor  is  a  higher  degree.  Still  higher  to  give  one 
self;  to  devote  one's  life  to  the  service  of  the  poor. 
Hospitality,  when  necessity  is  not  extreme,  is  a 
counsel,  and  to  receive  the  stranger  is  its  first  de 
gree.  But  to  go  out  on  the  roads  to  find  and  help, 
as  Abraham  did,  this  is  a  grade  still  higher.  Still 
higher  is  to  live  in  dangerous  places,  to  serve,  aid, 
and  save  the  passers-by ;  to  attend,  lodge,  succor, 
and  save  from  danger  the  travelers,  who  else  would 
die  in  cold  arid  storm.  This  is  the  work  of  the 
noble  friend  of  God,  who  founded  the  hospitals  on 
the  two  mountains,  now  for  this  called  by  his 
name,  Great  Saint  Bernard,  in  the  diocese  of  Sion, 
and  the  Little  Saint  Bernard,  in  the  Tarentaise." 

And  so  the  Hospice  was  built,  and  in  the  enthu 
siastic  words  of  a  chronicle  of  the  times,  "Tears 
and  sorrow  were  banished,  peace  and  joy  have 
replaced  them;  abundance  has  made  there  her 


172  THE    CONQUEST    OF   JUPITER    PEN. 

abode;  the  terrors  have  disappeared,  and  there 
reigns  eternal  springtime.  Instead  of  hell,  you 
will  find  there  paradise."  Not  quite  paradise,  per 
haps,  so  far  as  the  elements  are  concerned,  but  a 
dozen  kindly  men,  a  legion  of  dogs,  big,  cheerful, 
and  noisy,  a  warm  fire,  a  simple  meal,  and  a  God 
speed  to  all  men,  whatever  their  race,  or  creed,  or 
temper. 

I  need  add  but  a  word  more  of  the  history  of 
Bernard  himself.  One  day  an  old  man  and  his 
wife  came  up  to  visit  the  Hospice  and  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  monk  who  had  founded  it.  Bernard 
met  them  there,  and  at  once  recognized  his  father 
and  mother.  He  received  them  sympathetically, 
and  they  told  him  the  story  of  their  lost  son.  Ber 
nard  spoke  to  them  tenderly  of  the  work  to  which 
God  must  have  called  him.  He  told  them  they 
should  rejoice  that  their  child  had  been  found 
worthy  of  his  purposes,  and  after  a  time  they 
seemed  to  become  reconciled,  and  felt  that  He 
doeth  all  things  well.  Then  Bernard  told  them 
who  he  was,  and  when  after  many  days  they  went 
away  from  the  Hospice,  they  left  the  money  to  build 
in  each  of  them  a  chapel. 

Bernard  died  in  the  year  1007,  at  the  age  of 
eighty-three.  His  last  words  were  these:  "  0  Lord, 


DEATH    OF  BERNARD  173 

I  give  my  soul  into  thy  hands."  The  words,  "  The 
saint  is  dead,"  passed  on  from  mouth  to  mouth 
throughout  these  Alpine  regions.  The  peasants 
had  canonized  him  already  a  hundred  years  before 
the  sanctity  of  his  work  was  officially  recognized 
at  Eome. 

The  story  of  his  burial  is  again  marked  by  mira 
cles.  Rich  men  vied  with  each  other  in  making 
funeral  offerings.  One  gave  him  a  magnificent  stone 
coffin,  but  this  man  had  been  a  usurer.  Usury 
was  a  sin  abhorred  by  Saint  Bernard,  and  the 
people  found  that  no  force  or  persuasion  could 
place  his  body  within  this  coffin.  So  another  tomb, 
less  pretentious,  but  more  worthy,  was  found.  At 
the  end  Bernard's  remains  were  divided  among  the 
churches,  each  of  whom  claimed  him  as  its  own. 
To  the  Hospice  fell  his  ring  and  his  cup,  a  tooth, 
and  a  few  finger-bones,  and,  most  important  of  all, 
his  name  —  the  "  Great  Saint  Bernard." 

The  chronicles  give  a  long  list  of  miracles  which 
since  then  have  been  wrought  in  his  name.  These 
are  for  the  most  part  wonderful  healings,  the  still 
ing  of  storms,  the  bringing  of  rain,  the  driving 
away  of  grasshoppers.  However,  men  are  prone 
always  to  look  for  the  miracle  in  the  things  that 
are  of  least  moment.  The  life  and  work  of  the 


174  THE    CONQUEST    OF  JUPITER    PEN. 

man  was  the  real  miracle,  not  the  flight  of  grass 
hoppers.  The  miracle  of  all  time  is  the  power  of 
humanity  when  it  works  in  harmony  with  the  laws 
and  purposes  of  God.  Consecrated  to  God's  work, 
and  by  the  work's  own  severity  protected  through 
the  centuries  from  corruption  and  temptation,  the 
work  of  the  monk  of  Aosta  has  outlasted  palaces 
and  thrones.  Through  the  influence  of  charity,  and 
piety,  and  truth,  the  demon  has  been  driven  from 
these  mountains.  When  the  love  of  man  joins  to 
the  love  of  God,  all  spirits  of  evil  vanish  as  mist 
before  the  morning  sun. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   PURITANS.* 

I  HAVE  a  word  to  say  of  Thoreau,  and  of  an 
episode  which  brought  his  character  into  bold 
relief,  and  which  has  fairly  earned  for  him  a  place 
in  American  history,  as  well  as  in  our  literature. 

I  do  not  wish  now  to  give  any  account  of  the  life 
of  Thoreau.  In  the  preface  to  his  volume  called 
"  Excursions  "  you  will  find  a  biographical  sketch, 
written  by  the  loving  hand  of  Mr.  Emerson,  his 
neighbor  and  friend.  Neither  shall  I  enter  into 
any  justification  of  Thoreau's  peculiar  mode  of  life, 
nor  shall  I  describe  the  famous  cabin  in  the  pine 
woods  by  Walden  Pond,  already  becoming  the 
Mecca  of  the  Order  of  Saunterers,  whose  great 
prophet  was  Thoreau.  His  profession  of  land- 
surveyor  was  one  naturally  adopted  by  him  ;  for  to 
him  every  hill  and  forest  was  a  being,  each  with  its 
own  individuality.  This  profession  kept  him  in  the 
fields  and  woods,  with  the  sky  over  his  head  and  the 
mold  under  his  feet.  It  paid  him  the  money  needed 
for  his  daily  wants,  and  he  cared  for  no  more. 

*  Address  before  the  California  State  Normal  School,  at  San  Jose,  1892. 
177 


178  THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

He  seldom  went  far  away  from  Concord,  and,  in 
a  half-playful  way,  he  used  to  view  everything  in 
the  world  from  a  Concord  standpoi  All  the 
grandest  trees  grew  there  and  all  the  rarest  flowers, 
and  nearly  all  the  phenomena  of  nature  could  be 
observed  at  Concord. 

"  Nothing  can  be  hoped  of  you,"  he  said,  "  if  this 
bit  of  mold  under  your  feet  is  not  sweeter  to  you 
than  any  other  in  this  world  —  in  any  world." 

Although  one  of  the  most  acute  of  observers, 
Thoreau  was  never  reckoned  among  the  scientific 
men  of  his  time.  He  was  never  a  member  of  any 
Natural  History  Society,  nor  of  any  Academy  of 
Sciences,  bodies  which,  in  a  general  way,  he  held 
in  not  altogether  unmerited  contempt.  When  men 
band  together  for  the  study  of  nature,  they  first 
draft  a  long  constitution,  with  its  attendant  by 
laws,  and  then  proceed  to  the  election  of  officers, 
and,  by  and  by,  the  study  of  nature  becomes  subor 
dinate  to  the  maintenance  of  the  organization. 

In  technical  scientific  work,  Thoreau  took  little 
pleasure.  It  is  often  pedantic,  often  bloodless,  and 
often  it  is  a  source  of  inspiration  only  to  him  by 
whom  the  work  is  done.  Animals  and  plants  were 
interesting  to  him,  not  in  their  structure  and  gen 
ealogical  affinities,  but  in  their  relations  to  his 


A     WORD    FOE     WILDNESS.  179 

mind.  He  loved  wild  things,  not  alone  for  them 
selves,  but  for  the  tonic  effect  of  their  savagery  upon 
him. 

"I  wish  to  speak  a  word  for  nature,"  he  said, 
"  for  absolute  freedom  and  wildness,  as  contrasted 
with  a  freedom  and  culture  merely  civil,  to  regard 
man  as  an  inhabitant,  a  part  and  parcel  of  nature, 
rather  than  as  a  member  of  society.  I  wish  to 
make  an  extreme  statement;  if  so,  I  may  make  an 
emphatic  one,  for  there  are  enough  champions  of 
civilization.  The  minister  and  the  school  commit 
tees,  and  every  one  of  you,  will  take  care  of  that." 

To  Thoreau's  admirers,  he  is  the  prophet  of  the 
fields  and  woods,  the  interpreter  of  nature,  and  his 
every  word  has  to  them  the  deepest  significance. 
He  is  the  man  who 

**  Lives  all  alone,  close  to  the  bone, 
And  where  life  is  sweetest,  constantly  eatest." 

They  resent  all  criticism  of  his  life  or  his  words. 
They  are  impatient  of  all  analysis  of  his  methods 
or  of  his  motives,  and  a  word  of  praise  of  him  is 
the  surest  passport  to  their  good  graces. 

But  the  critics  sometimes  miss  the  inner  harmo 
ny  which  Thoreau's  admirers  see,  and  discern  only 
queer  paradoxes  and  extravagances  of  statement 
where  the  others  hear  the  voice  of  nature's  oracle. 


180  THE   LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

With  most  literary  men,  the  power  or  disposition 
of  those  who  know  or  understand  their  writings  is 
in  some  degree  a  matter  of  literary  culture.  It  is 
hardly  so  in  the  case  of  Thoreau. 

The  most  illiterate  man  I  know  who  had  ever 
heard  of  Thoreau,  Mr.  Barney  Mullins,  of  Freedom 
Centre,  Outagamie  County,  Wisconsin,  was  a  most 
ardent  admirer  of  Thoreau,  while  the  most  emi 
nent  critic  in  America,  James  Russell  Lowell,  does 
him  scant  justice.  To  Lowell,  the  finest  thoughts 
of  Thoreau  are  but  strawberries  from  Emerson's 
garden,  and  other  critics  have  followed  back  these 
same  strawberries  through  Emerson's  to  still  older 
gardens,  among  them  to  that  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne. 

But,  setting  the  critics  aside,  let  me  tell  you 
about  Barney  Mullins.  Twenty  years  ago,  I  lived 
for  a  year  in  the  northern  part  of  Wisconsin.  The 
snow  is  very  deep  in  the  winter  there,  and  once  I 
rode  into  town  through  the  snowbanks  on  a  sled 
drawn  by  two  oxen  and  driven  by  Barney  Mullins. 
Barney  was  born  on  the  banks  of  Killarney,  and 
he  could  scarcely  be  said  to  speak  the  English  lan 
guage.  He  told  me  that  before  he  came  to  Freedom 
Centre  he  had  lived  in  a  town  called  Concord,  in 
Massachusetts.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  happened  to 


BARNEY   MULL1NS    AND    THOREAU.  181 

know  a  man  there  by  the  name  of  Henry  Thoreau. 
He  at  once  grew  enthusiastic  and  he  said,  among 
other  things:  "Mr.  Thoreau  was  a  land-surveyor 
in  Concord.  I  knew  him  well.  He  had  a  way  of 
his  own,  and  he  didn't  care  naught  about  money, 
but  if  there  was  ever  a  gentleman  alive,  he  was 
one." 

Barney  seemed  much  saddened  when  I  told  him 
that  Mr.  Thoreau  had  been  dead  a  dozen  years. 
On  parting,  he  asked  me  to  come  out  some  time  to 
Freedom  Centre,  and  to  spend  a  night  with  him. 
He  had  n't  much  of  a  room  to  offer  me,  but  there 
was  always  a  place  in  his  house  for  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Thoreau.  Such  is  the  feeling  of  this  guild  of  lovers 
of  Thoreau,  and  some  of  you  may  come  to  belong 
to  it. 

Here  is  a  test  for  you.  Thoreau  says :  "  I  long 
ago  lost  a  hound,  a  bay  horse,  and  a  turtle-dove, 
and  am  still  on  their  trail.  Many  are  the  travelers 
I  have  spoken  to  regarding  them,  describing  their 
tracks,  and  what  calls  they  answered  to.  I  have 
met  one  or  two  who  have  heard  the  hound  and  the 
tramp  of  the  horse,  and  even  seen  the  dove  disap 
pear  behind  the  cloud,  and  they  seemed  as  anxious 
to  recover  them  as  if  they  had  lost  them  them 
selves." 


182  THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

Now,  if  any  of  you,  in  your  dreams,  have  heard 
the  horse,  or  seen  the  sunshine  on  the  dove's  wings, 
you  may  join  in  the  search.  If  not,  you  may  close 
the  book,  for  Thoreau  has  not  written  for  you. 

This  Thoreau  guild  is  composed,  as  he  himself 
says,  "  of  knights  of  a  new,  or,  rather,  an  old  order, 
not  equestrians  or  chevaliers,  not  Bitters,  or  riders, 
but  walkers,  a  still  more  ancient  and  honorable 
class,  I  trust." 

"  I  have  met,"  he  says,  "  but  one  or  two  persons 
who  understand  the  art  of  walking;  who  had  a 
genius  for  sauntering,  which  word  is  beautifully 
derived  from  idle  people  who  roved  about  the  coun 
try  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  asked  charity,  under 
pretense  of  going  '  a  la  Salute  Terre' — a  Sainte-terrer, 
a  Holy  Lander.  They  who  never  go  to  the  Holy 
Land  in  their  walks,  as  they  pretend,  are  indeed 
mere  idlers  and  vagabonds;  but  they  who  go  there 
are  saunterers,  in  the  good  sense.  Every  walk  is  a 
kind  of  crusade  preached  by  some  Peter  the  Her 
mit  within  us,  to  go  forth  and  reconquer  this  Holy 
Land  from  the  hands  of  the  Infidels. 

"  It  is  true  that  we  are  but  faint-hearted  crusa 
ders,  who  undertake  no  persevering,  never-ending 
enterprises.  Our  expeditions  are  but  tours,  and 
come  round  again  at  evening  to  the  old  hearth- 


KNIGHTS   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  SAUNTERER8.    183 

side  from  which  we  set  out.  Half  the  walk  is  but 
retracing  our  steps.  "We  should  go  forth  on  the 
shortest  walk,  perchance,  in  the  spirit  of  undying 
adventure,  never  to  return,  prepared  to  send  back 
our  embalmed  hearts  only  as  relics  to  our  desolate 
kingdoms.  If  you  are  ready  to  leave  father  and 
mother,  and  brother  and  sister,  and  wife  and  child, 
and  friends;  if  you  have  paid  your  debts,  and  made 
your  will,  and  settled  all  your  affairs,  and  are  a 
free  man,  you  are  ready  for  a  walk." 

Though  a  severe  critic  of  conventional  follies, 
Thoreau  was  always  a  hopeful  man ;  and  no  finer 
rebuke  to  the  philosophy  of  Pessimism  was  ever 
given  than  in  these  words  of  his:  "I  know  of  no 
more  encouraging  fact  than  the  unquestionable 
ability  of  a  man  to  elevate  his  life  by  a  conscious 
endeavor.  It  is  something  to  be  able  to  paint  a 
particular  picture,  or  to  carve  a  statue,  and  so  make 
a  few  objects  beautiful;  but  it  is  far  more  glorious 
to  carve  and  paint  the  very  atmosphere  and  me 
dium  through  which  we  look.  This,  morally,  we 
can  do." 

But  it  is  not  of  Thoreau  as  a  saunterer,  or  as  a 
naturalist,  or  as  an  essayist,  that  I  wish  to  speak, 
but  as  a  moralist,  and  this  in  relation  to  American 
politics.  Thoreau  lived  in  a  dark  day  of  our  politi- 


184  THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

cal  history.  At  one  time  he  made  a  declaration  of 
Independence  in  a  small  way,  and  refused  alle 
giance  and  poll-tax  to  a  Government  built  on  a 
corner-stone  of  human  slavery.  Because  of  this 
he  was  put  into  jail,  where  he  remained  one  night, 
and  where  he  made  some  curious  observations  on 
his  townspeople  as  viewed  from  the  inside  of  the 
bars.  Emerson  came  along  in  the  morning,  and 
asked  him  what  he  was  there  for.  "  Why  are  you 
not  in  here,  Mr.  Emerson  ?  "  was  his  reply ;  for  it 
seemed  to  him  that  no  man  had  the  right  to  be  free 
in  a  country  where  some  men  were  slaves. 

"Voting  for  the  right,"  Thoreau  said,  "is  doing 
nothing  for  it;  it  is  only  expressing  feebly  your 
desire  that  right  should  prevail."  He  would  not  for 
an  instant  recognize  that  political  organization  as 
his  government  which  was  the  slave's  government 
also.  "  In  fact,"  he  said,  "  I  will  quietly,  after  my 
fashion,  declare  war  with  the  State.  Under  a  gov 
ernment  which  imprisons  any  unjustly,  the  true 
place  for  a  just  man  is  also  a  prison.  I  know  this 
well,  that  if  one  thousand,  if  one  hundred,  or  if 
one  honest  man  in  this  State  of  Massachusetts, 
ceasing  to  remain  in  this  co-partnership,  should 
be  locked  up  in  the  county  jail  therefor,  it  would 
be  the  abolition  of  slaverv  in  America.  It  matters 


A    DECLARATION    OF   INDEPENDENCE.        185 

not  how  small  the  beginning  may  seem  to  be,  what 
is  once  well  done  is  done  forever." 

Thoreau's  friends  paid  his  taxes  for  him,  and  he 
was  set  free,  so  that  the  whole  affair  seemed  like 
a  joke.  Yet,  as  Stevenson  says,  "  If  his  example 
had  been  followed  by  a  hundred,  or  by  thirty  of 
his  followers,  it  would  have  greatly  precipitated 
the  era  of  freedom  and  justice.  We  feel  the  mis 
deeds  of  our  country  with  so  little  fervor,  for  we 
are  not  witnesses  to  the  suffering  they  cause.  But 
when  we  see  them  awake  an  active  horror  in  our 
fellow-man ;  when  we  see  a  neighbor  prefer  to  lie 
in  prison  than  be  so  much  as  passively  implicated 
in  their  perpetration,  even  the  dullest  of  us  will 
begin  to  realize  them  with  a  quicker  pulse." 

In  the  feeling  that  a  wrong,  no  matter  how  great, 
must  fall  before  the  determined  assault  of  a  man, 
no  matter  how  weak,  Thoreau  found  the  reason 
for  his  action.  The  operation  of  the  laws  of  God 
is  like  an  incontrollable  torrent.  Nothing  can  stand 
before  them;  but  the  work  of  a  single  man  may 
set  the  torrent  in  motion  which  will  sweep  away 
the  accumulations  of  centuries  of  wrong. 

There  is  a  long  chapter  in  our  national  history 
which  is  not  a  glorious  record.  Most  of  us  are  too 
young  to  remember  much  of  politics  under  the 


186  THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

Fugitive  Slave  Law,  or  to  understand  the  defer 
ence  which  politicians  of  every  grade  then  paid  to 
the  peculiar  institution.  It  was  in  those  days  in 
the  Middle  West  that  Kentucky  blackguards,  backed 
by  the  laws  of  the  United  States,  and  aided  not  by 
Northern  blackguards  alone,  but  by  many  of  the 
best  citizens  of  those  States,  chased  runaway  slaves 
through  the  streets  of  our  Northern  capitals. 

And  not  the  politicians  alone,  but  the  teachers 
and  preachers,  took  their  turn  in  paying  tribute  to 
Csesar.  We  were  told  that  the  Bible  itself  was  a 
champion  of  slavery.  Two  of  our  greatest  theolo 
gians  in  the  North  declared,  in  the  name  of  the 
Higher  Law,  that  slavery  was  a  holy  thing,  which 
the  Lord,  who  cursed  Canaan,  would  ever  uphold. 

In  those  days  there  came  a  man  from  the  West — 
a  tall,  gaunt,  grizzly,  shaggy-haired,  God-fearing 
man,  a  son  of  the  Puritans,  whose  ancestors  came 
over  on  the  Mayflower.  A  dangerous  fanatic  or 
lunatic,  he  was  called,  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  few 
poor  negroes  whom  he  had  stolen  from  slavery,  he 
defied  the  power  of  this  whole  slave-catching  United 
States.  A  little  square  brick  building,  once  a  sort 
of  car-shop,  stands  near  the  railway  station  in  the 
town  of  Harper's  Ferry,  with  the  mountain  wall 
not  far  behind  it,  and  the  Potomac  River  running 


JOHN    BROWN. 


HIS    SOUL    WENT    MARCHING    ON.  189 

below.  And  from  this  building  was  fired  the  shot 
which  pierced  the  heart  of  slavery.  And  the  Gov 
ernor  of  Virginia  captured  this  man,  and  took  him 
out  and  hung  him,  and  laid  his  body  in  the  grave, 
where  it  still  lies  moldering.  But  there  was  part 
of  him  not  in  the  jurisdiction  of  Virginia,  a  part 
which  they  could  neither  hang  nor  bury ;  and,  to 
the  infinite  surprise  of  the  Governor  of  Virginia, 
his  soul  went  marching  on. 

When  they  heard  in  Concord  that  John  Brown 
had  been  captured,  and  was  soon  to  be  hung, 
Thoreau  sent  notice  through  the  city  that  he  would 
speak  in  the  public  hall  on  the  condition  and 
character  of  John  Brown,  on  Sunday  evening,  and 
invited  all  to  be  present. 

The  Republican  Committee  and  the  Committee 
of  the  Abolitionists  sent  word  to  him  that  this  was 
no  time  to  speak ;  to  discuss  such  matters  then  was 
premature  and  inadvisable.  He  replied :  "  I  did 
not  send  to  you  for  advice,  but  to  tell  you  that  I 
am  going  to  speak."  The  selectmen  of  Concord 
dared  neither  grant  nor  refuse  him  the  hall.  At 
last  they  ventured  to  lose  the  key  in  a  place  where 
they  thought  he  could  find  it. 

This  address  of  Thoreau,  "  A  Plea  for  Captain 
John  Brown,"  should  be  a  classic  in  American  his- 


190  THE    LAST    OF   THE    PURITANS. 

tory.  We  do  not  always  realize  that  the  time  of 
American  history  is  now.  The  dates  of  the  settle 
ment  of  Jamestown,  and  Plymouth,  and  St.  Augus 
tine  do  not  constitute  our  history.  Columbus  did 
not  discover  us.  In  a  high  sense,  the  true  America 
is  barely  thirty  years  old,  and  its  first  President 
was  Abraham  Lincoln. 

We  in  the  North  are  a  little  impatient  at  times, 
and  our  politicians,  who  are  not  always  our  best 
citizens,  mutter  terrible  oaths,  especially  in  the 
month  of  October,  because  the  South  is  not  yet 
wholly  regenerate,  because  not  all  which  sprang 
from  the  ashes  of  the  slave-pen  were  angels  of  light. 

But  let  us  be  patient  while  the  world  moves  on- 
Forty  years  ago  not  only  the  banks  of  the  Yazoo 
and  the  Chattahoochee,  but  those  of  the  Hudson, 
and  the  Charles,  and  the  Wabash,  were  under  the 
lash.  On  the  eve  of  John  Brown's  hanging  not  half 
a  dozen  men  in  the  city  of  Concord,  the  most  intel 
lectual  town  in  New  England,  the  home  of  Emer 
son,  and  Hawthorne,  and  Alcott,  dared  say  that 
they  felt  any  respect  for  the  man  or  sympathy  for 
the  cause  for  which  he  died. 

I  wish  to  quote  a  few  passages  from  this  "'  Plea 
for  Captain  John  Brown."  To  fully  realize  its  power, 
you  should  read  it  all  for  yourselves.  You  must  put 


THE    VOICE    OF  NATURE   IN   PROTEST.       191 

yourselves  back  into  history,  now  already  seeming 
almost  ancient  history  to  us,  to  the  period  when 
Buchanan  was  President — the  terrible  sultry  lull 
just  before  the  great  storm.  You  must  picture  the 
audience  of  the  best  people  in  Massachusetts,  half- 
sympathizing  with  Captain  Brown,  half-afraid  of 
being  guilty  of  treason  in  so  doing.  You  must  pic 
ture  the  speaker,  with  his  clear-cut,  earnest  features 
and  penetrating  voice.  No  preacher,  no  politician, 
no  professional  reformer,  no  Republican,  no  Demo 
crat  ;  a  man  who  never  voted ;  a  naturalist  whose 
companions  were  the  flowers  and  the  birds,  the 
trees  and  the  squirrels.  It  was  the  voice  of  Nature 
in  protest  against  slavery  and  in  plea  for  Captain 
Brown. 

"My  respect  for  my  fellow-men,"  said  Thoreau, 
"  is  not  being  increased  these  days.  I  have  noticed 
the  cold-blooded  way  in  which  men  speak  of  this 
event,  as  if  an  ordinary  malefactor,  though  one  of 
unusual  pluck,  '  the  gamest  man  I  ever  saw/  the 
Governor  of  Virginia  said,  had  been  caught  and  was 
about  to  be  hung.  He  was  not  thinking  of  his  foes 
when  the  Governor  of  Virginia  thought  he  looked 
so  brave. 

"  It  turns  what  sweetness  I  have  to  gall  to  hear 
the  remarks  of  some  of  my  neighbors.  When  we 
heard  at  first  that  he  was  dead,  one  of  my  towns- 


192  THE   LAST    OF    THE   PURITANS. 

men  observed  that  'he  dieth  as  the  fool  dieth,' 
which,  for  an  instant,  suggested  a  likeness  in  him 
dying  to  my  neighbor  living.  Others,  craven- 
hearted,  said,  disparagingly,  that  he  threw  his  life 
away  because  he  resisted  the  Government.  Which 
way  have  they  thrown  their  lives,  pray? 

"  I  hear  another  ask,  Yankee-like, '  What  will  he 
gain  by  it?'  as  if  he  expected  to  fill  his  pockets  by 
the  enterprise.  If  it  does  not  lead  to  a  surprise  party, 
if  he  does  not  get  a  new  pair  of  boots  or  a  vote  of 
thanks,  it  must  be  a  failure.  But  he  won't  get 
anything.  Well,  no ;  I  don't  suppose  he  could  get 
four-and-sixpence  a  day  for  being  hung,  take  the 
year  around,  but  he  stands  a  chance  to  save  his 
soul  —  and  such  a  soul! —  which  you  do  not.  You 
can  get  more  in  your  market  for  a  quart  of  milk 
than  a  quart  of  blood,  but  yours  is  not  the  market 
heroes  carry  their  blood  to. 

"  Such  do  not  know  that  like  the  seed  is  the  fruit, 
and  that  in  the  moral  world,  when  good  seed  is 
planted,  good  fruit  is  inevitable;  that  when  you 
plant  or  bury  a  hero  in  his  field,  a  crop  of  heroes  is 
sure  to  spring  up.  This  is  a  seed  of  such  force  and 
vitality,  it  does  not  ask  our  leave  to  germinate. 

"  A  man  does  a  brave  and  humane  deed,  and  on 
all  sides  we  hear  people  and  parties  declaring, '  I 
didn't  do  it,  nor  countenance  him  to  do  it  in  any 
conceivable  way.  It  can't  fairly  be  inferred  from 
my  past  career.'  Ye  need  n't  take  so  much  pains, 
my  friends,  to  wash  your  skirts  of  him.  No  one 


NOBODY  RESPONSIBLE   FOR    JOHN  BROWN.    193 

will  ever  be  convinced  that  he  was  any  creature  of 
yours.  He  went  and  came,  as  he  himself  informs  us, 
under  the  anspices  of  John  Brown,  and  nobody  else, 

" '  All  is  quiet  in  Harper's  Ferry,'  say  the  jour 
nals.  What  is  the  character  of  that  calm  which 
follows  when  the  law  and  the  slaveholder  prevail? 
I  regard  this  event  as  a  touchstone  designed  to  bring 
out  with  glaring  distinctness  the  character  of  this 
Government.  We  needed  to  be  thus  assisted  to  see 
it  by  the  light  of  history.  It  needed  to  see  itself. 
When  a  government  puts  forth  its  strength  on  the 
side  of  injustice,  as  ours,  to  maintain  slavery  and 
kill  the  liberators  of  the  slave,  it  reveals  itself 
simply  as  brute  force.  It  is  more  manifest  than 
ever  that  tyranny  rules.  I  see  this  Government  to 
be  effectually  allied  with  France  and  Austria  in 
oppressing  mankind. 

"The  only  government  that  I  recognize — and  it 
matters  not  how  few  are  at  the  head  of  it,  or  how 
small  its  army, —  is  the  power  that  establishes 
justice  in  the  land,  never  that  which  establishes 
injustice.  What  shall  we  think  of  a  government 
to  which  all  the  truly  brave  and  just  men  in  the 
land  are  enemies,  standing  between  it  and  those 
whom  it  oppresses? 

"Treason!  Where  does  such  treason  take  its  rise? 
I  cannot  help  thinking  of  you  as  ye  deserve,  ye 
governments!  Can  you  dry  up  the  fountain  of 
thought?  High  treason,  when  it  is  resistance  to 
tyranny  here  below,  has  its  origin  in  the  power 


194  THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

that  makes  and  forever  re-creates  man.  When  you 
have  caught  and  hung  all  its  human  rebels,  you 
have  accomplished  nothing  but  your  own  guilt. 
You  have  not  struck  at  the  fountain-head.  The 
same  indignation  which  cleared  the  temple  once 
will  clear  it  again. 

"  I  hear  many  condemn  these  men  because  they 
were  so  few.  When  were  the  good  and  the  brave 
ever  in  the  majority?  Would  you  have  had  him 
wait  till  that  time  came?  Till  you  and  I  came 
over  to  him?  The  very  fact  that  he  had  no  rabble 
or  troop  of  hirelings  about  him,  would  alone  dis 
tinguish  him  from  ordinary  heroes.  His  company 
was  small,  indeed,  because  few  could  be  found 
worthy  to  pass  muster.  Each  one  who  there  laid 
down  his  life  for  the  poor  and  oppressed  was  a 
picked  man,  called  out  of  many  thousands,  if  not 
millions.  A  man  of  principle,  of  rare  courage  and 
devoted  humanity,  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life  at 
any  moment  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellow-man ;  it 
may  be  doubted  if  there  were  as  many  more  their 
equals  in  the  country;  for  their  leader,  no  doubt, 
had  scoured  the  land  far  and  wide,  seeking  to  swell 
his  troop.  These  alone  were  ready  to  step  between 
the  oppressor  and  the  oppressed.  Surely  they  were 
the  very  best  men  you  could  select  to  be  hung ! 
That  was  the  greatest  compliment  their  country 
could  pay  them.  They  were  ripe  for  her  gallows. 
She  has  tried  a  long  time;  she  has  hung  a  good 
many,  but  never  found  the  right  one  before. 


HOW   A    MAN    CAN   DIE.  195 

"When  I  think  of  him  and  his  six  sons  and  his 
son-in-law  enlisted  for  this  fight,  proceeding  coolly, 
reverently,  humanely  to  work,  for  months,  if  not 
years,  summering  and  wintering  the  thought,  with 
out  expecting  any  reward  but  a  good  conscience, 
while  almost  all  America  stood  ranked  on  the  other 
side,  I  say  again  that  it  affects  me  as  a  sublime 
spectacle. 

"  If  he  had  had  any  journal  advocating  his  cause, 
any  organ  monotonously  and  wearisomely  playing 
the  same  old  tune  and  then  passing  around  the  hat, 
it  would  have  been  fatal  to  his  efficiency.  If  he 
had  acted  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  let  alone  by  the 
Government,  he  might  have  been  suspected.  It 
was  the  fact  that  the  tyrant  must  give  place  to  him, 
or  he  to  the  tyrant,  that  distinguished  him  from  all 
the  reformers  of  the  day  that  I  know. 

"  This  event  advertises  me  that  there  is  such  a 
fact  as  death,  the  possibility  of  a  man's  dying.  It 
seems  as  if  no  man  had  ever  died  in  America  be 
fore.  If  this  man's  acts  and  words  do  not  create  a 
revival,  it  will  be  the  severest  possible  satire  on 
words  and  acts  that  do. 

"It  is  the  best  news  that  America  has  ever  heard. 
It  has  already  quickened  the  feeble  pulse  of  the 
North,  and  infused  more  generous  blood  in  her 
veins  than  any  number  of  years  of  what  is  called 
political  and  commercial  prosperity.  How  many  a 
man  who  was  lately  contemplating  suicide  has  now 
something  to  live  for! 


196  THE   LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

"  I  am  here  to  plead  his  cause  with  you.  I  plead 
not  for  his  life,  but  for  his  character,  his  immortal 
life,  and  so  it  becomes  your  cause  wholly,  and  it  is 
not  his  in  the  least. 

"Some  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  Christ  was 
crucified;  this  morning,  perchance,  Captain  Brown 
was  hung.  These  are  the  two  ends  of  the  chain 
which  is  not  without  its  links.  He  is  not  Old 
Brown  any  longer;  he  is  an  angel  of  light.  I  see 
now  that  it  was  necessary  that  the  bravest  and 
humanest  man  in  all  the  country  should  be  hung. 
Perhaps  he  saw  it  himself.  I  almost  fear  that  I 
may  yet  hear  of  his  deliverance,  doubting  if  a  pro 
longed  life,  if  any  life,  can  do  as  much  good  as  his 
death. 

" '  Misguided !  Garrulous !  Insane !  Vindictive ! ' 
So  you  write  in  your  easy  chairs,  and  thus  he, 
wounded,  responds  from  the  floor  of  the  Armory — 
clear  as  a  cloudless  sky,  true  as  the  voice  of  Nature 
is!  *  No  man  sent  me  here.  It  was  my  own  prompt 
ings  and  that  of  my  Maker.  I  acknowledge  no 
master  in  human  form/ 

"And  in  what  a  sweet  and  noble  strain  he  pro 
ceeds,  addressing  his  captors,  who  stand  over  him. 

" '  I  think,  my  friends,  you  are  guilty  of  a  great 
wrong  against  God  and  humanity,  and  it  would 
be  perfectly  right  for  any  one  to  interfere  with  you 
so  far  as  to  free  those  you  willfully  and  wickedly 
hold  in  bondage.  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  God  is 
any  respecter  of  persons. 


"NO    MAN   SENT    ME    HERE."  197 

"  ' I  pity  the  poor  in  bondage,  who  have  none  to 
help  them ;  that  is  why  I  am  here,  not  to  gratify 
personal  animosity,  revenge,  or  vindictive  spirit. 
It  is  my  sympathy  with  the  oppressed  and  the 
wronged  that  are  as  good  as  you  are,  and  as  pre 
cious  in  the  sight  of  God. 

" '  I  wish  to  say,  furthermore,  that  you  had  better, 
all  of  you  people  at  the  South,  prepare  yourselves 
for  a  settlement  of  that  question,  that  must  come 
up  for  settlement  sooner  than  you  are  prepared  for 
it.  The  sooner  you  are  prepared  the  better.  You 
may  dispose  of  me  now  very  easily  —  I  am  nearly 
disposed  of  already, —  but  this  question  is  still  to  be 
settled,  this  negro  question,  I  mean ;  the  end  of  that 
is  not  yet.' " 

"  I  foresee  the  time,"  said  Thoreau,  "  when  the 
painter  will  paint  that  scene,  no  longer  going  to 
Rome  for  his  subject.  The  poet  will  sing  it;  the 
historian  record  it ;  and,  with  the  Landing  of  the 
Pilgrims  and  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  it 
will  be  the  ornament  of  some  future  national  gal 
lery,  when  at  least  the  present  form  of  slavery  shall 
be  no  more  here.  We  shall  then  be  at  liberty  to 
weep  for  Captain  Brown.  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
we  will  take  our  revenge." 

A  few  years  ago,  while  on  a  tramp  through  the 
North  Woods,  I  came  out  through  the  forests  of 
North  Elba,  to  the  old  "John  Brown  Farm."  Here 
John  Brown  lived  for  many  years,  and  here  he  tried 


198  THE    LAST    OF    THE    PURITANS. 

to  establish  a  colony  of  freed  slaves  in  the  pure  air 
of  the  mountains.  Here,  too,  his  family  remained 
through  the  stirring  times  when  he  took  part  in  the 
bloody  struggles  that  made  and  kept  Kansas  free. 

The  little  old  brown  farmhouse  stands  on  the 
edge  of  the  great  woods,  a  few  miles  to  the  north 
of  the  highest  peaks  of  the  Adirondacks.  There  is 
nothing  unusual  about  the  house.  You  will  find  a 
dozen  such  in  a  few  hours'  walk  almost  anywhere 
in  the  mountain  parts  of  New  England  or  New 
York.  It  stands  on  a  little  hill,  "  in  a  sightly 
place,"  as  they  say  in  that  region,  with  no  shelter 
of  trees  around  it. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  a  broad  curve  flows  the 
River  Au  Sable,  small  and  clear  and  cold,  and  full 
of  trout.  It  is  not  far  above  that  the  stream  takes 
its  rise  in  the  dark  Indian  Pass,  the  only  place  in 
these  mountains  where  the  ice  of  winter  lasts  all 
summer  long.  The  same  ice  on  the  one  side  sends 
forth  the  Au  Sable,  and  on  the  other  feeds  the 
fountain  head  of  the  infant  Hudson  River. 

In  the  little  dooryard  in  front  of  the  farmhouse 
is  the  historic  spot  where  John  Brown's  body  still 
lies  moldering.  There  is  not  even  a  grave  of  his 
own.  His  bones  lie  with  those  of  his  father,  and 
the  short  record  of  his  life  and  death  is  crowded  on 


^m\  : 


DUST    TO    DUST;    GRANITE    TO    GRANITE.     201 

the  foot  of  his  father's  tombstone.  Near  by,  in 
the  little  yard,  lies  a  huge,  wandering  boulder, 
torn  off  years  ago  by  the  glaciers  from  the  granite 
hills  that  hem  in  Indian  Pass.  The  boulder  is 
ten  feet  or  more  in  diameter,  large  enough  to  make 
the  farmhouse  behind  it  seem  small  in  comparison. 
On  its  upper  surface,  in  letters  two  feet  long,  which 
can  be  read  plainly  for  a  mile  away,  is  cut  the 
simple  name — 

JOHN  BROWN. 

This  is  John  Brown's  grave,  and  the  place,  the 
boulder,  and  the  inscription  are  alike  fitting  to  the 
man  he  was. 

Dust  to  dust;  ashes  to  ashes;  granite  to  granite; 
the  last  of  the  Puritans ! 


A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  POETS. 


A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  POETS.* 


"  In  London  I  saw  two  pictures.  One  was  of  a  woman.  You  would 
not  mistake  it  for  any  of  the  Greek  goddesses.  It  had  a  splendor  and 
majesty  such  as  Phidias  might  have  given  to  a  woman  Jupiter.  But  not 
terrible.  The  culmination  of  the  awful  beauty  was  in  an  expression  of 
matchless  compassion.  If  there  had  been  other  figures,  they  must  have 
been  suffering  humanity  at  her  feet. 

"The  other  was  also  of  a  woman.  Whose  face  it  is  liard  to  say.  Not 
the  Furies,  not  Lady  Macbeth,  not  Catherine  de  Medici,  not  Philip  the 
Second,  not  Nero,  not  any  face  you  have  ever  seen,  but  a  gathering  up 
from  all  the  faces  you  have  seen  —the  greatness,  the  splendor,  the  sava 
gery,  the  greed,  the  pride,  the  hate,  the  mercilessness,  into  one  colossal, 
terrifyingly  Satanic  woman-face.  The  first  was  clothed  in  a  simple,  soft, 
white  robe ;  the  other  in  a  befitting  tragic  splendor,  mostly  blood-red. 
I  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  What  immeasurable  distance  between 
them!  What  single  point  have  they  in  common?  But  as  I  look  back 
and  forth  I  seem  to  see  a  certain  formal  similarity.  It  grows  upon  me. 
I  am  incredulous.  I  am  appalled.  Then  one  touches  me  and  whispers : 
1  They  are  the  same.  It  is  the  Church.'  In  London  I  saw  this— in  the 
air."—  WILLIAM  LOWE  BUY  AN. 


FOUR  centuries  ago  began  the  great  struggle 
for  freedom  of  thought  which  has  made  our 
modern  civilization  possible.     I  wish  here  to  give 
something  of  the  story  of  a  man  who  in  his  day 
was  not  the  least  in   this  conflict — a  man  who 


*For  many  of  the  details  of  the  life  of  Hutten,  and  for  most  of  the 
quotations  from  Hutten's  writings  given  in  this  paper,  the  writer  is 
indebted  to  the  excellent  memoir  by  David  Friedrich  Strauss,  entitled 
"  Ulrica  von  Hutten."  (Fourth  Edition :  Bonn,  1878.)  No  attempt  has 
been  made  to  give  here  an  account  of  Hutten's  writings,  only  a  few  of 
the  more  noteworthy  being  mentioned. 

207 


208       A    KNIGHT  OF  THE    ORDER    OF  POETS. 

dared  to  think  and  act  for  himself  when  thought 
and  act  were  costly — Ulrich  von  Hutten. 

Near  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  on  a  sharp  pinnacle 
of  rock  above  the  little  railway  station  of  Vollmerz, 
may  still  be  found  the  scanty  ruins  of  an  old  castle 
which  played  a  brave  part  in  German  history  be 
fore  it  was  destroyed  in  the  Thirty  Years  War. 

In  this  castle  of  Steckelberg,  in  the  year  1488, 
was  born  Ulrich  von  Hutten.  He  was  the  last  of  a 
long  line  of  Huttens  of  Steckelberg,  strong  men 
who  knew  not  fear,  who  had  fought  for  the  Em 
peror  in  all  lands  whither  the  imperial  eagle  had 
flown,  and  who,  when  the  empire  was  at  peace,  had 
fought  right  merrily  with  their  neighbors  on  all 
sides.  Robber-knights  they  were,  no  doubt,  some 
or  all  of  them;  but  in  those  days  all  was  fair  in 
love  and  in  war.  And  this  line  of  warriors  centered 
in  Ulrich  von  Hutten,  and  with  him  it  ended. 
"  The  wild  kindred  has  gone  out  with  this  its 
greatest." 

Ulrich  was  the  eldest  son,  and  bore  his  father's 
name.  But  he  was  not  the  son  his  father  had 
dreamed  of.  Slender  of  figure,  short  of  stature, 
and  weak  of  limb,  Ulrich  seemed  unworthy  of  his 
burly  ancestry.  The  horse,  the  sword,  and  the  lute 
were  not  for  him.  He  tried  hard  to  master  them 


THE    LIFE    OF   A     SCHOLAR.  209 

and  to  succeed  in  all  things  worthy  of  a  knight. 
But  he  was  strong  only  with  his  books.  At  last  to 
his  books  his  father  consigned  him,  and,  sorely 
disappointed,  he  sent  Ulrich  to  the  monastery  of 
Fulda  to  be  made  a  priest. 

A  wise  man,  Eitelwolf  von  Stein,  became  his 
friend,  and  pointed  out  to  him  a  life  braver  than 
that  of  a  priest,  more  noble  than  that  of  a  knight, 
the  life  of  a  scholar.  To  Hutten's  father  Eitelwolf 
wrote:  "  Would  you  bury  a  genius  like  that  in  the 
cloister?  He  must  be  a  man  of  letters."  But  the 
father  had  decided  once  for  all.  Ulrich  must  never 
return  to  Steckelberg  unless  he  came  back  as  a 
priest.  And  the  son  took  his  fate  in  his  own 
hands,  and  fled  from  Fulda,  to  make  his  way  as  a 
scholar  in  a  world  in  which  scholarship  received 
scanty  recognition. 

At  the  same  time  another  young  man  whose 
history  was  to  be  interwoven  with  his  own,  Martin 
Luther,  fled  from  the  wickedness  and  deceit  of  this 
same  world  to  the  solitude  of  the  monastery  of 
Erfurth.  By  very  different  paths  they  came  at  last 
to  work  in  the  same  cause,  and  their  modes  of 
action  were  not  less  different. 

To  the  University  of  Cologne  Hutten  went,  and 
with  the  students  of  that  day  he  was  trained  in  the 


210        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

mysteries  of  scholasticism,  and  in  the  Latin  of  the 
schoolmen  and  the  priests.  "Wonderful  problems 
they  pondered  over,  and  they  used  to  write  long 
arguments  in  Latin  for  or  against  propositions 
which  came  nowhere  within  the  domain  of  fact. 
That  scholarship  stood  related  to  reality,  and  that 
it  must  find  its  end  and  justification  in  action  was 
no  part  of  the  philosophy  of  those  times. 

But  Hutten  and  his  friends  cared  little  for 
scholastic  puzzles  and  they  gave  themselves  to  the 
study  of  the  beauties  of  Latin  poetry  and  to  the 
newly  opened  mine  of  the  literature  of  Greece. 
They  delighted  in  Virgil  and  Lucian,  and  still  more 
in  Homer  and  jEschylus. 

The  Turks  had  conquered  Constantinople,  and 
the  fall  of  the  Greek  Empire  had  driven  many 
learned  Greeks  to  the  West  of  Europe.  There  some 
of  the  scholars  received  them  with  open  arms,  and 
eagerly  learned  from  them  to  read  Homer  and 
Aristotle  in  the  original  tongue,  and  the  New  Testa 
ment  also.  Those  who  followed  these  studies  came 
to  be  known  as  Humanists.  But  most  of  the  uni 
versities  and  the  monasteries  in  Germany  looked 
upon  this  revival  of  Greek  culture  as  pernicious 
and  antichristian.  Poetry  they  despised.  The 
Latin  Vulgate  met  their  religious  needs,  and  Greek 


DESPISING    THE  LESSER    GODS  IN  SILENCE.    211 

was  only  another  name  for  Paganism.  The  party 
name  of  Obscurantists  ("Dunkelmanner")  was  given 
to  these,  and  this  name  has  remained  with  them  on 
the  records  of  history. 

In  the  letters  of  one  of  Hutten's  comrades  we 
find  this  confession  of  faith,  which  is  interesting  as 
expressing  the  feelings  of  young  men  of  that  time : 
"  There  is  but  one  God,  but  he  has  many  forms, 
and  many  names — Jupiter,  Sol,  Apollo,  Moses, 
Christ,  Luna,  Ceres,  Proserpine,  Tellus,  Mary.  But 
be  careful  how  you  say  that.  One  must  disclose 
these  things  in  secret,  like  Eleusinian  mysteries. 
In  matters  of  religion,  you  must  use  the  cover  of 
fables  and  riddles.  You,  with  Jupiter's  grace  (that 
is,  the  grace  of  the  best  and  greatest  god),  can 
despise  the  lesser  gods  in  silence.  When  I  say  Jupi 
ter,  I  mean  Christ  and  the  true  God.  The  coat  and 
the  beard  and  the  bones  of  Christ  I  worship  not. 
I  worship  the  living  God,  who  wears  no  coat  nor 
beard,  and  left  no  bones  upon  the  earth." 

Hutten  wished  to  know  the  world,  not  from  books 
only,  but  to  see  all  cities  and  lands;  to  measure 
himself  with  other  men;  to  rise  above  those  less 
worthy.  The  danger  of  such  a  course  seemed  to 
him  only  the  greater  attraction.  Content  to  him 
was  laziness;  love  of  home  but  a  dog's  delight  in 


212        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE   OEDER    OF  POETS. 

a  warm  fire.     "  I  live,"  he  said,  "  in  no  place  rather 
than  another;  my  home  is  everywhere." 

So  he  tramped  through  Germany  to  the  north 
ward,  and  had  but  a  sorry  time.  In  his  own  mind 
he  was  a  scholar,  a  poet,  a  knight  of  the  noblest 
blood  of  Germany;  to  others  he  was  a  little  sickly 
and  forlorn  vagrant.  Never  strong  of  body,  he  was 
stricken  by  a  miserable  disease  which  filled  his  life 
with  a  succession  of  attacks  of  fever.  He  was  ship 
wrecked  on  the  Baltic  Sea,  sick  and  forlorn  in 
Pornerania,  and  at  last  he  was  received  in  charity 
in  the  house  of  Henning  Lotz,  professor  of  law  at 
Greifeswald. 

This  action  has  given  Lb'tz's  name  immortality, 
for  it  is  associated  with  the  first  of  those  fiery 
poems  of  Hutten  which,  in  their  way,  are  unique 
in  literature.  For  Hutten  was  restless  and  proud, 
and  was  not  to  be  content  with  bread  and  butter 
and  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  This  independence  was 
displeasing  to  the  professor,  who  finally,  in  utter 
disgust,  turned  Hutten  out  of  doors  in  midwinter. 
When  the  boy  had  tramped  a  while  in  storm  and 
slush,  two  servants  of  Lotz  overtook  him  on  the 
road  and  robbed  him  of  his  money  and  clothing. 
In  a  wretched  plight  he  reached  a  little  inn  in 
Rostock,  in  Mecklenberg.  Here  the  professors  in 


FELLOW-FEELING    AMONG    FREE    SPIRITS.    213 

the  university  received  him  kindly,  and  made  pro 
vision  for  his  needs.  Then  he  let  loose  the  fury 
of  his  youthful  anger  on  Lotz.  As  ever,  his  poetic 
genius  rose  with  his  wrath,  and  the  more  angry 
he  became  the  greater  was  he  as  a  poet. 

Two  volumes  he  published,  ringing  the  changes 
of  his  contempt  and  hatred  of  Lotz,  at  the  same 
time  praising  the  virtues  of  those  who  had  found 
in  him  a  kindred  spirit.  A  "knight  of  the  order 
of  poets,"  he  styles  himself,  and  to  all  Humanists, 
to  the  " fellow-feeling  among  free  spirits"  (u  Gem- 
eingeist  unter  freien  Geistern")  he  appeals  for  sym 
pathy  in  his  struggle  with  Lotz. 

He  had,  indeed,  not  found  a  foeman  worthy  of 
his  steel,  but  he  had  shown  what  a  finely  tempered 
blade  he  bore.  Foemen  enough  he  found  in  later 
times,  and  his  steel  had  need  of  all  its  sharpness 
and  temper.  And  it  never  failed  him  to  the  last. 

Meanwhile  he  wandered  to  Vienna,  giving  lec 
tures  there  on  the  art  of  poetry.  But  poetry  was 
abhorred  by  the  schoolmen  everywhere,  and  the 
students  of  the  university  were  forbidden  to  attend 
his  lectures.  He  then  went  to  Italy.  When  he 
reached  Pavia,  he  found  the  city  in  the  midst  of  a 
siege,  surrounded  by  a  hostile  French  army.  He 
fell  ill  of  a  fever,  and  giving  himself  up  for  dead, 


214        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

he   composed   the   famous  epitaph  for  himself,  of 
which  I  give  a  rough  translation : 

Here,  also  be  it  said,  a  life  of  ill-fortune  is  ended ; 

By  evil  pursued  on  the  water  ;  beset  by  wrong  upon  land. 
Here  lie  Hutten's  bones  ;  he,  who  had  done  nothing  wrongful, 

Was  wickedly  robbed  of  his  life  by  the  sword  in  a  French 
man's  hand. 
By  Fate,  decided  that  he  should  see  unlucky  days  only; 

Decided  that  even  these  days  could  never  be  many  or  long ; 
Hemmed  in  by  danger  and  death,  he  forsook  not  serving  the 
muses, 

And  as  well  as  he  could,  he  rendered  this  service  in  song. 

The  Frenchman's  sword  did  not  rob  him  of  his 
life.  The  Frenchman's  hand  took  only  his  money, 
which  was  not  much,  and  again  sent  him  adrift. 
He  now  set  his  pen  to  writing  epigrams  on  the 
Emperor,  wherein  Maximilian  was  compared  to 
the  eagle  which  should  devour  the  frogs  in  the 
swamps  of  Venice.  Meanwhile  he  enlisted  as  a 
common  soldier  in  Maximilian's  army. 

In  Italy,  the  abuses  of  the  Papacy  attracted  his 
attention.  Officials  of  the  Church  were  then  en 
gaged  in  extending  the  demand  for  indulgences. 
The  sale  of  pardons  "  straight  from  Rome,  all  hot," 
was  becoming  a  scandal  in  Christendom.  All  this 
roused  the  wrath  of  Hutten,  who  attacked  the  Pope 
himself  in  his  songs: 


DUKE    ULRICH    AND    HANS    HUTTEN.         215 

''Heaven  now  stands  for  a  price  to  be  peddled  and  sold, 
But  what  new  folly  is  this,  as  though  the  fiat  of  Heaven 
Needed  an  earthly  witness,  an  earthly  warrant  and  seal! " 

More  prosperous  times  followed,  and  we  find 
Hutten  honored  as  a  poet,  living  in  the  court  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Mainz.  At  this  time  a  cousin,  Hans 
Hutten,  a  young  man  of  great  courage  and  prom 
ise,  was  a  knight  in  the  service  of  Ulrich,  Duke  of 
Wurtemberg.  He  was  a  favorite  of  the  Duke,  and 
he  and  his  young  wife  were  the  life  of  the  Wurtem- 
burg  court.  And  Duke  Ulrich  once  came  to  Hans 
and  threw  himself  at  his  feet,  begging  that  this 
wife,  whom  he  loved,  should  be  given  over  wholly 
to  him.  Hans  Hutten  answered  the  Duke  like  a 
man,  and  the  Duke  arose  with  murder  in  his  heart. 
Afterward,  when  they  were  hunting  in  a  wood,  he 
stabbed  Hans  Hutten  in  the  back  with  his  sword. 

All  this  came  to  the  ear  of  Ulrich  Hutten  in 
Mainz.  Love  for  his  cousin,  love  for  his  name  and 
family,  love  for  freedom  and  truth,  all  urged  him 
to  avenge  the  murdered  Hans.  The  wrongs  the 
boy  had  suffered  from  the  coarse-hearted  Professor 
Lb'tz  became  as  nothing  beside  this  great  crime 
against  the  Huttens  and  against  manhood. 

In  all  the  history  of  invective,  I  know  of  nothing 
so  fierce  as  Hutten 's  appeal  against  Duke  Ulrich. 


216        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

In  five  different  pamphlets  his  crime  was  described 
to  the  German  people,  and  all  good  men,  from  the 
Emperor  down,  were  called  on  to  help  him  in  his 
struggle  against  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg. 

"  I  envy  you  your  fame,  you  murderer,"  he  wrote. 
"A  year  will  be  named  for  you,  and  there  shall  be 
a  day  set  off  for  you.  Future  generations  shall 
read,  for  those  who  are  born  this  year,  that  they 
were  born  in  the  year  stained  by  the  ineffaceable 
shame  of  Germany.  You  will  come  into  the  calen 
dar,  scoundrel.  You  will  enrich  history.  Your 
deed  is  immortal,  and  you  will  be  remembered  in 
all  future  time.  You  have  had  your  ambition,  and 
you  shall  never  be  forgotten." 

This  struggle  lasted  long.  Finally,  after  many 
appeals,  the  German  nobles  rose  in  arms  and  be 
sieged  Stuttgart,  and  Duke  Ulrich  was  driven  from 
the  land  he  had  disgraced. 

Again  Hutten  visited  Italy,  this  time  by  a  partial 
reconciliation  with  his  father,  who  would  overlook 
his  failure  to  become  a  priest  if  he  would  study  law 
at  Rome.  At  about  this  time  Luther  visited  Rome. 
He  came,  at  first,  in  a  spirit  of  reverence ;  but,  at 
last,  he  wrote :  "  Wenn  es  gibt  eine  Holle,  JRoma  ist 
darauf  gebaut"  ("  If  there  is  a  hell,  Rome  is  built 
on  it.") 


ULKICH    VON    HUTTEN. 


ULR1CH    HUTTEN    AT    ROME.  219 

The  impression  on  Hutten  was  scarcely  less  vivid. 
Little  by  little  he  began  to  see  in  the  Pope  of  Rome 
a  criminal  greater  that  Professor  Lb'tz,  greater  than 
Duke  Ulrich,  one  who  could  devour  not  one  cousin 
only,  but  the  whole  German  people  and  nation. 
"  For  three  hundred  years/'  said  he,  "  the  Pope  and 
the  schoolmen  have  been  covering  the  teachings  of 
Christ  with  a  mass  of  superstitious  ceremonies  and 
wicked  books."  These  feelings  were  poured  out  in 
an  appeal  to  the  German  rulers  to  shake  off  the 
yoke,  and  no  longer  send  their  money  to  "  Simon 
of  Rome." 

Hutten's  friends  tried  to  quiet  him.  He  was  a 
man  not  of  free  thought  only,  but  of  free  speech,  and 
knew  no  concealment.  Milder  men  in  those  times, 
as  later  Melancthon  and  Erasmus,  were  full  of  ad 
miration  of  Hutten,  and  valued  his  skill  and  force. 
But  they  were  afraid  of  him,  and  fearful  always 
that  the  best  of  causes  should  be  wrecked  in  his 
hands. 

At  this  time,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  Hutten  is 
described  as  a  small,  thin  man,  of  homely  features, 
with  blonde  hair  and  black  beard.  His  pale  face 
wore  a  severe,  almost  wild,  expression.  His  speech 
was  sharp,  often  terrible.  Yet  with  those  whom  he 
loved  and  respected  his  voice  had  a  frank  and  win- 


220        A    KNIGHT  OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

ning  charm.  He  had  but  few  friends,  but  they  were 
fast  ones.  His  personal  character,  so  far  as  records 
go,  was  singularly  pure,  and  not  often  in  his  writ 
ings  does  he  strike  a  coarse  or  unclean  note. 

In  these  days,  the  two  most  learned  men  in  Ger 
many  were  Erasmus  and  Reuchlin.  They  were 
leaders  of  the  Humanists,  skilled  in  Greek,  and  even 
in  the  Hebrew  tongue,  and  were  called  by  Hutten 
"  the  two  eyes  of  Germany."  A  Jew  named  Pfeffer- 
korn,  who  had  become  converted  to  Christianity, 
was  filled  with  an  unholy  zeal  against  his  fellow- 
Jews  who  had  not  been  converted.  Among  other 
things,  he  asked  an  edict  from  the  Emperor  that  all 
Jewish  books  in  Germany  should  be  destroyed. 
Eeuchlin  was  a  Hebrew  scholar.  He  had  written  a 
Hebrew  grammar,  and  was  learned  in  the  Old 
Testament,  as  well  as  in  the  Talmud,  and  other 
deposits  of  the  ancient  lore  of  the  rabbis.  The 
Emperor  referred  Pfefferkorn's  request  to  Reuchlin 
for  his  opinion.  Reuchlin  decided  that  there  was 
no  valid  reason  for  the  destruction  of  any  of  the 
ancient  Jewish  writings,  and  only  of  such  modern 
ones  as  might  be  decided  by  competent  scholars 
to  be  hostile  to  Christianity. 

This  enraged  Pfefferkorn  and  his  Obscurantist 
associates.  Pamphlets  were  written  denouncing 


AMENITIES    OF    CONTROVERSY.  221 

Reuchlin,  and  these  were  duly  answered.  A  gen 
eral  war  of  words  between  the  Humanists  and  Ob 
scurantists  began,  which,  in  time,  came  before  the 
Pope  and  the  Emperor.  Reuchlin  was  regarded  in 
those  days  as  a  man  of  unusual  calmness  and  dig 
nity.  Next  to  Erasmus,  he  was  the  most  learned 
scholar  in  Europe.  He  would  never  condescend  in 
his  controversies  to  the  coarse  terms  used  by  his 
adversaries.  We  may  learn  something  of  the  tem 
per  of  the  times  by  observing  that,  in  a  single  pam 
phlet,  as  quoted  by  Strauss,  the  epithets  that  the 
dignified  Reuchlin  applies  to  Pfefferkorn  are :  "  A 
poisonous  beast,"  "  a  scarecrow,"  "  a  horror,"  "  a 
mad  dog,"  "  a  horse,"  "  a  mule,"  "a  hog,"  "  a  fox," 
"  a  raging  wolf,"  "  a  Syrian  lion,"  "  a  Cerberus,"  "  a 
fury  of  hell."  In  this  matter  Reuchlin  was  finally 
triumphant.  This  triumph  was  loudly  celebrated 
by  his  friend  Hutten  in  another  poem,  in  which 
the  Obscurantists  were  mercilessly  attacked. 

We  have  seen  with  Hutten's  growth  a  gradual 
increase  in  the  importance  of  those  to  whom  he 
declared  himself  an  enemy.  He  began  as  a  boy 
with  the  obscure  Professor  Lotz.  He  ended  with 
the  Pope  of  Rome. 

At  this  time  Reuchlin  published  a  volume  called 
u  Epistolse  Clarorum  Virorum  "  ( "  letters  of  illus- 


222        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

trious  men").  It  was  made  up  of  letters  written 
by  the  various  learned  men  of  Europe  to  Reuchlin, 
in  sympathy  with  him  in  his  struggle.  The  title 
of  this  work  gave  the  keynote  to  a  series  of  letters 
called  " Epistolx  Obscurorum  Virorum "  (" letters  of 
obscure  men")  —  that  is,  of  Obscurantists. 

These  letters,  written  by  different  persons,  but 
largely  by  Hutten,  are  the  most  remarkable  of  all 
satires  of  that  time. 

They  are  a  series  of  imaginary  epistles,  supposed 
to  be  addressed  by  various  Obscurantists  to  a  poet 
named  Ortuinus.  They  are  written  with  consum 
mate  skill,  in  the  degenerate  Latin  used  by  the 
priests  in  those  days,  and  they  are  made  to  exhibit 
all  the  secret  meanness,  ignorance,  and  perversity 
of  their  supposed  writers. 

The  first  of  these  epistles  of  the  "  obscure  men  " 
were  eagerly  read,  by  their  supposed  associates,  the 
Obscurantists.  Here  were  men  who  felt  as  they  felt, 
and  who  were  not  afraid  to  speak.  The  mendicant 
friars  in  England  had  a  day  of  rejoicing,  and  a 
Dominican  friar  in  Flanders  bought  all  the  copies 
of  the  letters  he  could  find  to  present  to  his  bishop. 

But  in  time  even  the  dullest  began  to  feel  the 
severity  of  the  satire.  The  last  of  these  letters 
formed  the  most  telling  blows  ever  dealt  at  the 


LETTERS    OF    OBSCUME    MEN.  223 

schoolmen  by  the  men  of  learning.  In  one  of  the 
earlier  letters  we  find  this  question,  which  may  serve 
as  a  type  of  many  others : 

A  man  ate  an  egg  in  which  a  chicken  was  just 
beginning  to  form,  ignorant  of  that  fact,  and  forget 
ting  that  it  was  Friday.  A  friend  consoles  him  by 
saying  that  a  chicken  in  that  stage  counts  for  no 
more  than  worms  in  cheese  or  in  cherries,  and 
these  can  be  eaten  even  in  fasting-time.  But  the 
writer  is  not  satisfied.  Worms,  he  had  been  told 
by  a  physician,  who  was  also  a  great  naturalist,  are 
reckoned  as  fishes,  which  one  can  eat  on  fast-days. 
But  with  all  this,  he  fears  that  a  young  chicken 
may  be  really  forbidden  food,  and  he  asks  the  help 
of  the  poet  Ortuinus  to  a  righteous  decision. 

Another  person  writes  to  Ortuinus :  "  There  is  a 
new  book  much  talked  of  here,  and,  as  you  are  a 
poet,  you  can  do  us  a  good  service  by  telling  us  of 
it.  A  notary  told  me  that  this  book  is  the  well- 
spring  of  poetry,  and  that  its  author,  one  Homer, 
is  the  father  of  all  poets.  And  he  said  there  is 
another  Homer  in  Greek.  I  said, '  What  is  the  use 
of  the  Greek?  the  Latin  is  much  better.'  And  I 
asked,  'What  is  contained  in  the  book?'  And  he 
said  it  treats  of  certain  people  who  are  called 
Greeks,  who  carried  on  a  war  with  some  others 


224        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

called  Trojans.  And  these  Trojans  had  a  great 
city,  and  those  Greeks  besieged  it  and  stayed  there 
ten  years.  And  the  Trojans  came  out  and  fought 
them  till  the  whole  plain  was  covered  with  blood 
and  quite  red.  And  they  heard  the  noise  in 
heaven,  and  one  of  them  threw  a  stone  which 
twelve  men  could  not  lift,  and  a  horse  began  to 
talk  and  utter  prophecies.  But  I  can't  believe 
that,  because  it  seems  impossible,  and  the  book 
seems  to  me  not  to  be  authentic.  I  pray  you  give 
me  your  opinion." 

Another  relates  the  story  of  his  visit  to  Reuchlin  : 
"When  I  came  into  his  house,  Reuchlin  said, 
'Welcome,  bachelor;  seat  yourself.'  And  he  had 
a  pair  of  spectacles  ( '  unum  Brillum ' )  on  his  nose, 
and  a  book  before  him  curiously  written,  and  I 
saw  at  once  that  it  was  neither  in  German  nor 
Bohemian,  nor  yet  in  Latin.  And  I  said  to  him, 
'Respected  Doctor,  what  do  they  call  that  book?7 
He  answered,  'It  is  called  the  Greek  Plutarch, 
and  it  treats  of  philosophy.'  And  I  said,  'Read 
some  of  it,  for  it  must  contain  wonderful  things.' 
Then  I  saw  a  little  book,  newly  printed,  lying  on 
the  floor,  and  I  said  to  him,  '  Respected  Doctor, 
what  lies  there  ? '  He  answered,  'It  is  a  contro 
versial  book,  which  a  friend  in  Cologne  sent  me 


HUTTEN    THE    POET    DREAMS    OF   LOVE.      225 

lately.  It  is  written  against  me.  The  theolo 
gians  in  Cologne  have  printed  it,  and  they  say 
that  Johann  Pfefferkorn  wrote  it.'  And  I  said, 
'What  will  you  do  about  it?  Will  you  not  vindi 
cate  yourself  ?'  And  he  answered, '  Certainly  not. 
I  have  been  vindicated  long  ago,  and  can  spend 
no  time  on  these  follies.  My  eyes  are  too  weak 
for  me  to  waste  their  strength  on  matters  which 
are  not  useful.' " 

We  next  find  Hutten  high  in  the  favor  of  the 
Emperor  Maximilian,  by  whose  order  he  was 
crowned  poet-laureate  of  Germany.  The  wreath 
of  laurel  was  woven  by  the  fair  hands  of  Constance 
Peutinger,  who  was  called  the  handsomest  girl  in 
Germany,  and  with  great  ceremony  she  put  this 
wreath  on  his  head  in  the  presence  of  the  Emperor? 
at  Mainz. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  Hutten  seems  to  have 
thought  seriously  of  marriage.  He  writes  to  a 
friend,  Friedrich  Fischer:  "I  am  overcome  with  a 
longing  for  rest,  that  I  may  give  myself  to  art. 
For  this,  I  need  a  wife  who  shall  take  care  of  me. 
You  know  my  ways.  I  cannot  be  alone,  not  even 
by  night.  In  vain  they  talk  to  me  of  the  pleasures 
of  celibacy.  To  me  it  is  loneliness  and  monotony. 
I  was  not  born  for  that.  I  must  have  a  being 


226        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

who  can  lead  me  from  sorrows — yes,  even  from 
my  graver  studies;  one  with  whom  I  can  joke  and 
play,  and  carry  on  light  and  happy  conversations, 
that  the  sharpness  of  sorrow  may  be  blunted  and 
the  heat  of  anger  made  mild.  Give  me  a  wife, 
dear  Friedrich,  and  you  know  what  kind  of  one  I 
want.  She  must  be  young,  pretty,  well  educated, 
serene,  tender,  patient.  Money  enough  give  her, 
but  not  too  much.  For  riches  I  do  not  seek;  and 
as  for  blood  and  birth,  she  is  already  noble  to 
whom  Hutten  gives  his  hand." 

A  young  woman — Cunigunde  Glauburg — was 
found,  and  she  seemed  to  meet  all  requirements. 
But  the  mother  of  the  bride  was  not  pleased  with 
the  arrangement.  Hutten  was  a  "  dangerous  man," 
she  said,  "  a  revolutionist."  "  I  hope,"  said  Hut- 
ten,  "  that  when  she  comes  to  know  me,  and  finds 
in  me  nothing  restless,  nothing  mutinous,  my 
studies  full  of  humor  and  wit,  that  she  will  look 
more  kindly  on  me."  To  a  brother  of  Cunigunde 
he  writes :  "  Hutten  has  not  conquered  many 
cities,  like  some  of  these  iron-eaters,  but  through 
many  lands  has  wandered  with  the  fame  of  his 
name.  He  has  not  slain  his  thousands,  like 
those,  but  may  be  none  the  less  loved  for  that. 
He  does  not  stalk  about  on  yard-long  shin-bones, 


APPEAL    TO    LEO    THE    TENTH.  227 

nor  does  his  gigantic  figure  frighten  travelers; 
but  in  strength  of  spirit  he  yields  to  none.  He 
does  not  glow  with  the  splendor  of  beauty,  but 
he  dares  flatter  himself  that  his  soul  is  worthy  of 
love.  He  does  not  talk  big  nor  swell  himself  with 
boasting,  but  simply,  openly,  honestly  acts  and 
speaks." 

But  all  his  wooing  came  to  naught;  another 
man  wedded  the  fair  Cunigunde,  and  the  coming 
storm  of  Romish  wrath  left  Hutten  no  opportu 
nity  to  turn  his  attention  elsewhere. 

The  old  Pope  was  now  dead,  and  one  of  the 
famous  family  of  Medici,  in  Florence,  had  suc 
ceeded  him  as  Leo  the  Tenth.  Leo  was  kindly 
disposed  toward  the  Humanist  studies,  and  Hut- 
ten,  as  poet  of  the  Humanists,  addressed  to  him 
directly  a  remarkable  appeal,  which  made  the 
turning-point  in  his  life,  for  it  placed  him  openly 
among  those  who  resisted  the  Pope. 

Recounting  to  the  new  Pope  Leo  all  the  usur 
pations  which  in  his  judgment  had  been  made, 
one  by  one,  by  his  predecessors — all  the  robberies, 
impositions,  and  abuses  of  the  Papacy,  from  the 
time  of  Constantine  down — he  appeals  to  Leo,  as 
a  wise  man  and  a  scholar,  to  restore  stolen  power 
and  property,  to  correct  all  abuses,  to  abandon  all 


228        A    KNIGHT  OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

temporal  power,  and  become  once  more  the  simple 
Bishop  of  Eome.  "  For  there  can  never  be  peace 
between  the  robber  and  the  robbed  till  the  stolen 
goods  are  returned." 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  the  work  of  Luther  came 
to  Hutten's  attention.  The  disturbances  at  Wit 
tenberg  were  in  the  beginning  treated  by  all  as  a 
mere  squabble  of  the  monks.  To  Leo  the  Tenth 
this  discussion  had  no  further  interest  than  this: 
"  Brother  Martin,"  being  a  scholar,  was  most  prob 
ably  right.  To  Hutten,  who  cared  nothing  for 
doctrinal  points,  it  had  no  significance;  the  more 
monkish  strifes  the  better — "the  sooner  would  the 
enemies  eat  each  other  up." 

But  now  Hutten  came  to  recognize  in  Luther  the 
apostle  of  freedom  of  thought,  and  in  that  struggle 
of  the  Reformation  he  found  a  nobler  cause  than 
that  of  the  Humanists — in  Luther  a  greater  than 
Reuchlin.  And  Hutten  never  did  things  by 
halves.  He  entered  into  the  warfare  heart  and 
soul.  In  1520  he  published  his  "  Roman  Trinity," 
his  gage  of  battle  against  Rome. 

He  now,  like  Luther,  began  to  draw  his  inspira 
tion,  as  well  as  his  language,  not  from  the  classics, 
but  from  the  New  Testament.  A  new  motto  he 
took  for  himself,  one  which  was  henceforth  ever 


"7    HAVE    DARED    IT!"  229 

on  his  lips,  and  which  appears  again  and  again 
in  his  later  writings:  "Jacta  est  a^a"("the  die 
is  cast");  or,  in  the  stronger  German,  in  which  he 
more  often  gave  it,  "Ich  hab's  gewagt"  ("I  have 
dared  it"). 

"  Auf  dasz  ichs  nit  anheb  umsunst 
Wolauf,  wir  habeu  Gottes  Gunst ; 
Wer  wollt  in  solchem  bleiben  dheim? 
Ich  hab's  gewagt !  <las  ist  mein  Reim !  " 

"  Der  niemand  grossern  Schaden  bringt, 
Dann  mir  als  noch  die  Sach  gelingt 
Dahin  mich  Gott  und  Wahrheit  bringt, 
Ich  hab's  gewagt." 

"So  breche  ich  hindurch,  durch  breche  ich,  oder  ich  falle, 
Kampfend,  nach  dem  ich  einmal  geworfen  das  Loos !  " 

( So  break  I  through  the  ranks  else  I  die  fighting — 
Fighting,  since  once  and  forever  the  die  I  have  cast ! ) 

In  this  motto  we  have  the  keynote  to  his  fiery 
and  earnest  nature.  Convinced  that  a  cause  was 
right,  he  knew  no  bounds  of  caution  or  policy;  he 
feared  no  prison  or  death.  "  I  have  dared  it ! " 

"  To  all  free  men  of  Germany,"  he  speaks. 
"Their  tyranny  will  not  last  forever;  unless  all 
signs  deceive  me,  their  power  is  soon  to  fail — for 
already  is  the  axe  laid  at  the  root  of  the  tree,  and 
that  tree  which  bears  not  good  fruit  will  be  rooted 
out,  and  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord  will  be  purified. 


230        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

That  you  shall  not  only  hope,  but  soon  see  with 
your  eyes.  Meanwhile,  be  of  good  cheer,  you  men 
of  Germany.  Not  weak,  not  untried,  are  your 
leaders  in  the  struggle  for  freedom.  Be  not  afraid, 
neither  weaken  in  the  midst  of  the  battle,  for 
broken  at  last  is  the  strength  of  the  enemy,  for  the 
cause  is  righteous,  and  the  rage  of  tyranny  is 
already  at  its  height.  Courage,  and  farewell ! 
Long  live  freedom!  I  have  dared  it!"  ("Lebe  die 
Freiheit;  ich  hab's  gewagt."  ) 

Warnings  and  threats  innumerable  came  to 
Hutten,  from  enemies  who  feared  and  halted,  from 
friends  who  were  fearful  and  trembling;  but  he 
never  flinched.  He  had  "  dared  it."  The  bull  of 
excommunication  which  came  from  the  Pope 
frightened  him  no  more  than  it  did  Luther.  But 
at  last  he  was  compelled  to  retire  from  the  cities, 
and  he  took  up  his  abode  in  the  Castle  of  Ebern- 
burg,  with  Franz  von  Sickingen. 

Franz  von  Sickingen  was  one  of  the  great  nobles 
of  Germany,  and  he  ruled  over  a  region  in  the 
bend  of  the  Rhine  between  Worms  and  Bingen. 
His  was  one  of  the  bravest  characters  of  that 
time.  A  knight  of  the  highest  order,  he  became 
a  disciple  of  Hutten  and  Luther,  and  on  his  help 
was  the  greatest  reliance  placed  by  the  friends  of 


FROM    LITERATURE    TO    RELIGION.  231 

the  growing  reform.  His  strong  Castle  of  Ebern- 
burg,  on  the  hills  above  Bingen,  was  the  refuge 
of  all  who  were  persecuted  by  the  authorities. 
The  "Inn  of  Righteousness"  ("Herberge  von  Ge- 
rechtigkeit"),  the  Ebernburg  was  called  by  Hutten. 

The  Humanists  who  had  stood  with  Hutten  in 
the  struggle  between  Reuchlin  and  Pfefiferkorn  saw 
with  growing  concern  the  gradual  transfer  of  the 
field  of  battle  from  questions  of  literature  to  ques 
tions  of  religion.  Reuchlin,  growing  old  and  weak, 
wrote  a  letter,  disavowing  any  sympathy  with  the 
new  uprisings  against  the  time-honored  authority 
of  the  Church.  This  letter  came  into  Hutten's 
hands,  and,  with  all  his  reverence  for  his  old  friend 
and  master,  he  could  not  keep  silence. 

" Eternal  Gods!"  he  writes.  "What  do  I  see? 
Have  you  sunk  so  deep  in  weakness  and  fear,  0 
Reuchlin !  that  you  cannot  endure  blame  even  for 
those  who  have  fought  for  you  in  time  of  danger? 
Through  such  shameful  subservience  do  you  hope 
to  reconcile  those  to  whom,  if  you  were  a  man,  you 
would  never  give  a  friendly  greeting,  so  badly 
have  they  treated  you?  Yet  reconcile  them;  and  if 
there  is  no  other  way,  go  to  Rome  and  kiss  the  feet 
of  Leo,  and  then  write  against  us.  Yet  you  shall 
see  that,  against  your  will,  and  against  the  will  of 


232        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

all  the  godless  courtesans,  we  shall  shake  off  the 
shameful  yoke,  and  free  ourselves  from  slavery. 
I  am  ashamed  that  I  have  written  so  much  for  you 
—  have  done  so  much  for  you, —  since  when  it 
comes  to  action  you  have  made  such  a  miserable 
exit  from  the  ranks.  From  me  shall  you  know 
henceforth  that  whether  you  fight  in  Luther's 
cause  or  throw  yourself  at  the  feet  of  the  Bishop 
of  Rome,  I  shall  never  trust  you  more."  The  poor 
old  man,  thus  harassed  on  all  sides,  found  no 
longer  any  rest  or  comfort  in  his  studies.  Worn- 
out  in  body,  and  broken  in  spirit,  he  soon  died. 

The  great  source  of  Luther's  hold  on  Germany 
lay  in  his  direct  appeal  to  the  common  people.  For 
this  he  translated  the  Bible  into  German  —  even 
now  the  noblest  version  of  the  Bible  in  existence. 
For  in  translating  a  work  of  inspiration  the  intu 
ition  of  a  man  like  Luther,  as  Bayard  Taylor  has 
said,  counts  for  more  than  the  combined  scholar 
ship  of  a  hundred  men  learned  in  the  Greek  and 
Hebrew.  "The  clear  insight  of  one  prophet  is 
better  than  the  average  judgment  of  forty-seven 
scribes."  The  German  language  was  then  strug 
gling  into  existence,  and  scholars  considered  it 
beneath  their  notice.  It  was  fixed  for  all  time  by 
Luther's  Bible.  Luther  often  spent  a  week  on  a 


"NOW  CRY  I   TO    THE  FATHERLAND."         233 

single  verse  to  find  and  fix  the  idiomatic  German. 
"  It  is  easy  to  plow  when  the  field  is  cleared,"  he 
said.  "  We  must  not  ask  the  letters  of  the  Latin 
alphabet  how  to  speak  German,  but  the  mother  in 
the  kitchen  and  the  plowman  in  the  field,  that 
they  may  know  that  the  Bible  is  speaking  Ger 
man,  and  speaking  to  them.  Out  of  the  abundance 
of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh.  No  German 
peasant  would  understand  that.  We  must  make 
it  plain  to  him.  '  Wess  das  Herz  voll  ist,  dess  geht 
der  Mund  iiber.'  ('Whose  heart  is  full,  his  mouth 
runs  over/)" 

The  same  influence  acted  on  Hutten.  All  his 
previous  writings  were  in  Latin,  and  were  directed 
to  scholars  only.  Henceforth  he  wrote  the  language 
of  the  Fatherland,  and  his  appeals  to  the  people 
were  in  language  which  the  people  could  and  did 
read.  No  Reformation  ever  came  while  only  the 
learned  and  the  noble  were  in  the  secret  of  it. 

"  Latein,  ich  vor  geschrieben  hab 
Das  war  eiu  jeden  nicht  bekannt ; 
Jetzt  schrei  ich  an  das  Vaterland, 
Teutsch  Nation  in  ihrer  Sprach 
Zu  bringen  diesen  Dingen  Rach." 

("For  Latin  wrote  I  hitherto, 

Which  common  people  did  not  know. 
Now  cry  I  to  the  Fatherland, 


234        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE    ORDER    OF  POETS. 

The  German  people,  in  their  tongue, 
Redress  to  bring  for  all  these  wrongs.") 

A  song  for  the  people  he  now  wrote,  the  "  New 
Song  of  Ulrich  von  Hutten,"  a  song  which  stands 
with  Luther's  "Ein  feste  Burg"  in  the  history  of 
the  Reformation : 

"Ich  hab's  gewagt  mit  Sinnen, 

Und  trag  des  noch  kein  Reu, 
Mag  ich  nit  dran  gewinnen, 
Noch  muss  man  spiiren  Treu. 

"Darmit  ich  mein 

Mit  eim  allein, 
Wenn  Man  es  wolt  erkennen 

Dem  Land  zu  gut 

Wiewol  man  thut 
Ein  Pfaffenfeind  mich  nennen." 

Part  of  this  may  be  freely  translated  — 

"With  open  eyes  I  have  dared  it; 

And  cherish  no  regret, 
And  though  I  fail  to  conquer, 
The  Truth  is  with  me  yet." 

Hutten's  dream  in  these  days  was  of  a  league  of 
nobles,  cities,  and  people,  aided  by  the  Emperor 
if  possible,  against  the  Emperor  if  necessary,  which 
should  by  force  of  arms  forever  free  Germany  from 
the  rule  of  the  Pope.  Luther  had  little  faith  in  the 
power  of  force.  "  What  Hutten  wishes,"  he  wrote 


"  THE  WINDS   OF  FREEDOM  ARE  BLOWING."    235 

to  a  friend,  "  you  see.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  strive 
for  the  Gospel  with  murder  and  violence.  Through 
the  power  of  the  Word  is  the  world  subdued; 
through  the  Word  the  Church  shall  be  preserved 
and  freed.  Even  Antichrist  shall  be  destroyed  by 
the  power  of  the  Word." 

Now  came  the  Great  Diet  at  Worms,  whither 
Luther  was  called  before  the  Emperor  to  answer  for 
his  heretical  teachings,  and  before  which  he  stood 
firm  and  undaunted,  a  noble  figure  which  has  been 
a  turning-point  in  history.  "Here  I  stand.  I  can 
do  nothing  else.  God  help  me." 

Hutten,  on  his  sick-bed  at  Ebernburg,  not  far 
away,  was  full  of  wrath  at  the  trial  of  Luther. 
"Away!"  he  shouted,  "  away  from  the  clear  foun 
tains,  ye  filthy  swine!  Out  of  the  sanctuary,  ye 
accursed  peddlers !  Touch  no  longer  the  altar  with 
your  desecrating  hands.  What  have  ye  to  do  with 
the  alms  of  our  fathers,  which  were  given  for  the 
poor  and  the  Church,  and  you  spend  for  splendor, 
pomp,  and  foolery,  while  the  children  suffer  for 
bread?  See  you  not  that  the  wind  of  Freedom*  is 
blowing?  On  two  men  not  much  depends.  Know 
that  there  are  many  Luthers,  many  Huttens  here. 
Should  either  of  us  be  destroyed,  still  greater  is 

*"Sehet  ihr  nicht  dasz  die  Luft  der  Freiheit  weht?" 


236        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

the  danger  that  awaits  you;  for  then,  with  those 
battling  for  freedom,  the  avengers  of  innocence 
will  make  common  cause." 

I  have  wished,  in  writing  this  little  sketch,  that 
I  could  have  a  novelist's  privilege  of  bringing  out 
my  hero  happily  at  the  end.  I  have  hitherto  had 
the  struggles  of  a  man  living  before  his  time  to 
relate;  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness. 
If  this  were  a  romance,  I  might  tell  how,  with 
Hutten's  entreaties  and  Luther's  exhortations,  and 
under  the  wise  management  of  Franz  von  Sickin- 
gen,  the  people  banded  together  against  foreign 
foes  and  foreign  domination,  and  German  unity, 
German  freedom,  and  religious  liberty  were  forever 
established  in  the  Fatherland.  But,  alas !  the  his 
tory  does  not  run  in  that  way;  at  least  not  till 
a  hundred  years  of  war  had  bathed  the  land  in 
blood. 

For  Hutten  henceforth  I  have  only  misery  and 
failure  to  relate.  The  union  of  knights  and  cities 
resulted  in  a  ruinous  campaign  of  Franz  von  Sick- 
ingen  against  Treves.  Sickingen's  army  was  driven 
back  by  the  Elector.  His  strong  Castle  of  Land- 
stuhl  was  besieged  by  the  Catholic  princes,  and 
cannon  was  used  in  this  siege  for  the  first  time  in 
history.  The  walls  of  Landstuhl,  twenty-five  feet 


FORCE   OF  ARMS  HELPS  NOT   THE   GOSPEL.    237 

thick,  were  battered  down,  and  Sickingen  himself 
was  killed  by  the  falling  of  a  beam.  The  war  was 
over,  and  nothing  worthy  had  been  accomplished. 

When  Luther  heard  of  the  death  of  Sickingen,  he 
wrote  to  a  friend  :  "  Yesterday  I  heard  and  read  of 
Franz  von  Sickingen's  true  and  sad  history.  God 
is  a  righteous  but  marvelous  Judge.  Sickingen's 
fall  seems  to  me  a  verdict  of  the  Lord,  that 
strengthens  me  in  the  belief  that  the  force  of  arms 
is  to  be  kept  far  from  matters  of  the  Gospel." 

Hutten  was  driven  from  the  Ebernburg.  He  was 
offered  a  high  place  in  the  service  of  the  King  of 
France ;  but,  as  a  true  German,  he  refused  it,  and 
fled,  penniless  and  sick,  to  Basle,  in  Switzerland. 

Here  the  great  Humanist,  Erasmus,  reigned  su 
preme.  Erasmus  disavowed  all  sympathy  with  his 
former  friend  and  fellow-student.  He  called  Hutten 
a  dangerous  and  turbulent  man,  and  warned  the 
Swiss  against  him.  Erasmus  had  noticed,  with 
horror,  in  those  who  had  studied  Greek,  that  the 
influence  of  Lutheranism  was  fatal  to  learning; 
that  zeal  for  philology  decreased  as  zeal  for  religion 
increased.  Already  Erasmus,  like  Reuchlin,  was 
ranged  on  the  side  of  the  Pope.  So,  in  letters  and 
pamphlets,  Erasmus  attacked  Hutten;  and  the 
poet  was  not  slow  in  giving  as  good  as  he  received. 


238        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS, 

And  this  war  between  the  Humanist  and  the  Re 
former  gave  great  joy  to  the  Obscurantists,  who 
feared  and  hated  them  both. 

"  Humanism,"  says  Strauss,  "  was  broad-minded 
but  faint-hearted,  and  in  none  is  this  better  seen 
than  in  Erasmus.  Luther  was  a  narrower  man, 
but  his  unvarying  purpose,  never  looking  to  left 
nor  right,  was  his  strength.  Humanism  is  the 
broad  mirror-like  Rhine  at  Bingen.  It  must  grow 
narrower  and  wilder  before  it  can  break  through 
the  mountains  to  the  sea." 

Repulsed  by  Erasmus  at  Basle,  Hutten  fled  to 
Miilhausen.  Attacked  by  assassins  there,  he  left  at 
midnight  for  Zurich,  where  he  put  himself  under 
the  protection  of  Ulrich  Zwingli.  In  Zwingli,  the 
purest,  loftiest,  and  clearest  of  insight  of  all  of  the 
leaders  of  the  Reformation,  Hutten  found  a  con 
genial  spirit.  His  health  was  now  utterly  broken. 
To  the  famous  Baths  of  Pfaffers  he  went,  in  hope 
of  release  from  pain.  But  the  modern  bath-houses 
of  Ragatz  were  not  built  in  those  days,  and  the 
daily  descent  by  a  rope  from  above  into  the  dark 
and  dismal  chasm  was  too  much  for  his  feeble 
strength.  Then  Zwingli  sent  him  to  a  kindly 
friend,  the  Pastor  Hans  Schnegg,  who  lived  on 
the  little  Island  of  Ufnau,  in  the  Lake  of  Zurich. 


ULRICH    XVVINGLI. 


THE    PROTEST    OF   SPIRES.  241 

And  here  at  Ufnau,  worn  out  by  his  long,  double 
conflict  with  the  Pope  and  with  disease,  Ulrich  von 
Hutten  died  in  1523,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five. 
"He  left  behind  him,"  wrote  Zwingli,  "nothing 
of  worth.  Books  he  had  none;  no  money,  and  no 
property  of  any  sort,  except  a  pen." 

What  was  the  value  of  this  short  and  troubled 
life?  Three  hundred  years  ago  it  was  easy  to 
answer  with  Erasmus  and  the  rest  —  Nothing. 
Hutten  had  denounced  the  Pope,  and  the  Pope  had 
crushed  him.  He  had  stirred  up  noble  men  to 
battle  for  freedom,  and  they,  too,  had  been  de 
stroyed.  Franz  von  Sickingen  was  dead.  The 
league  of  the  cities  and  princes  had  faded  away 
forever.  Luther  was  hidden  in  the  Wartburg,  no 
one  knew  where,  and  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  Ref 
ormation  was  left  in  Germany.  Whatever  Hutten 
had  touched  he  had  ruined.  He  had  "  dared  it," 
and  the  force  he  had  defied  had  crushed  him  in 
return. 

But,  looking  back  over  these  centuries,  the  life 
of  Hutten  rises  into  higher  prominence.  His 
writings  were  seed  in  good  ground.  At  his  death 
the  Reformation  seemed  hopeless.  Six  years  later, 
at  the  second  Diet  of  Spires,  half  Germany  signed 


242        A    KNIGHT   OF   THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

the  protest  which  made  us  Protestants.  "  It  was 
Luther  alone  who  said  no  at  the  Diet  of  Worms. 
It  was  princes  and  people,  cities  and  churches,  who 
said  no  at  the  Diet  of  Spires." 

Hutten's  dream  of  a  United  German  people  freed 
from  the  yoke  of  Rome  was  for  three  hundred 
years  unrealized.  For  the  Reformation  sundered 
the  German  people  and  ruined  the  German  Em 
pire,  and  not  till  our  day  has  German  unity  come 
to  pass.  But,  as  later  reformers  said,  "  It  is  better 
that  Germany  should  be  half  German,  than  that  it 
should  be  all  Roman." 

For  the  true  meaning  of  this  conflict  does  not  lie 
in  any  question  of  church  against  church  or  creed 
against  creed,  nor  that  worship  in  cathedrals  with 
altars  and  incense  and  rich  ceremony  should  give 
way  to  the  simpler  forms  of  the  Lutheran  litany. 
The  issue  was  that  of  the  growth  of  man.  The 
"  right  of  private  interpretation  "  is  the  recognition 
of  personal  individuality. 

The  death  of  Hutten  was,  after  all,  not  untimely. 
He  had  done  his  work.  His  was  the  "  voice  of  one 
crying  in  the  wilderness."  The  head  of  John  the 
Baptist  lay  on  the  charger  before  Jesus  had  fulfilled 
his  mission.  Arnold  Winkelried,  at  Sempach,  filled 
his  body  with  Austrian  spears  before  the  Austrian 


RELIGION  BELONGS   TO   MEN  NOT  MASSES.    243 

phalanx  was  broken.  John  Brown  fell  at  Harper's 
Ferry  before  a  blow  was  struck  against  slavery. 
Ulrich  von  Hutten  had  set  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  Germany  to  thinking  of  his  relations 
to  the  Lord  and  to  the  Pope.  His  mission  was 
completed ;  and  longer  life  for  him,  as  Strauss  has 
suggested,  might  have  led  to  discord  among  the 
Reformers  themselves. 

For  this  lover  of  freedom  was  intolerant  of  intol 
erance.  For  fine  points  of  doctrine  he  had  only 
contempt.  When  the  Lutherans  began  to  treat 
as  enemies  all  Reformers  who  did  not  with  them 
subscribe  to  the  Confession  of  Augsburg,  Hutten's 
fiery  pen  would  have  repudiated  this  confession. 
For  he  fought  for  freedom  of  the  spirit,  not  for  the 
Lutheran  confession. 

Had  he  remained  in  Switzerland,  he  would  have 
been  still  less  in  harmony  with  the  prevailing  con 
ditions.  Not  long  after,  Zwingli  was  slain  in  the 
wretched  battle  of  Kappel,  and,  after  him,  the 
Swiss  Reformation  passed  under  the  control  of 
John  Calvin.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
stern  pietist  of  Geneva  would  have  burned  Ulrich 
von  Hutten  with  as  calm  a  conscience  as  he  did 
Michael  Servetus. 

The  idea  of  a  united  and  uniform  Church,  wheth- 


244        A    KNIGHT   OF  THE   ORDER    OF  POETS. 

er  Catholic,  Lutheran,  or  Calvinist,  had  little  attrac 
tion  for  Hutten.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to  realize 
that  religion  is  individual;  not  collective.  It  is 
concerned  with  life,  not  with  creeds  or  ceremonies. 
In  the  high  sense,  no  man  can  follow  or  share  the 
religion  of  another.  His  religion,  whatever  it  may 
be,  is  his  own.  It  is  built  up  from  his  own  thoughts 
and  prayers  and  actions.  It  is  the  expression  of 
his  own  ideals.  Only  forms  can  be  transferred 
unchanged  from  man  to  man,  from  generation  to 
generation ;  never  realities.  For  whatever  is  real 
to  a  man  becomes  part  of  him  and  partakes  of  his 
growth,  and  is  modified  by  his  personality. 

Hutten  was  buried  where  he  died,  on  the  little 
island  of  Ufnau,  in  the  Lake  of  Zurich,  at  the  foot 
of  the  mighty  Alps.  And  some  of  his  old  associ 
ates  put  over  his  grave  a  commemorative  stone. 
Afterwards,  the  monks  of  the  abbey  of  Einsiedeln, 
in  Schwytz  came  to  the  island  and  removed  the 
stone,  and  obliterated  all  traces  of  the  grave. 

It  was  well  that  they  did  so;  for  now  the  whole 
green  island  of  Ufnau  is  his  alone,  and  it  is  his 
worthy  sepulcher. 


NATURE-STUDY  AND  MORAL  CULTURE. 


NATURE -STUDY  AND  MORAL  CULTURE.* 

IN  pleading  for  nature-study  as  a  means  of  moral 
culture,  I  do  not  wish  to  make  an  overstate 
ment,  nor  to  claim  for  such  study  any  occult  or 
exclusive  power.  It  is  not  for  us  to  say,  so  much 
nature  in  the  schools,  so  much  virtue  in  the  schol 
ars.  The  character  of  the  teacher  is  a  factor  which 
must  always  be  counted  in.  But  the  best  teacher 
is  the  one  that  comes  nearest  to  nature,  the  one 
who  is  most  effective  in  developing  individual 
wisdom. 

To  seek  knowledge  is  better  than  to  have  knowl 
edge.  Precepts  of  virtue  are  useless  unless  they  are 
built  into  life.  At  birth,  or  before,  "the  gate  of  gifts 
is  closed."  It  is  the  art  of  life,  out  of  variant  and 
contradictory  materials  passed  down  to  us  from  our 
ancestors,  to  build  up  a  coherent  and  effective  indi 
vidual  character. 

The  essence  of  character-building  lies  in  action. 
The  chief  value  of  nature-study  in  character-build- 


*  Read  before  the  National  Educational  Association  at  Buffalo,  New 
York,  1896. 

247 


243       NATURE-STUDY    AND    MORAL     CULTURE. 

ing  is  that,  like  life  itself,  it  deals  with  realities. 
The  experience  of  living  is  of  itself  a  form  of  nature- 
study.  One  must  in  life  make  his  own  observa 
tions,  frame  his  own  inductions,  and  apply  them  in 
action  as  he  goes  along.  The  habit  of  finding  out 
the  best  thing  to  do  next,  and  then  doing  it,  is 
the  basis  of  character.  A  strong  character  is  built 
up  by  doing,  not  by  imitation,  nor  by  feeling,  nor 
by  suggestion.  Nature-study,  if  it  be  genuine,  is 
essentially  doing.  This  is  the  basis  of  its  effective 
ness  as  a  moral  agent.  To  deal  with  truth  is  nec 
essary,  if  we  are  to  know  truth  when  we  see  it  in 
action.  To  know  truth  precedes  all  sound  moral 
ity.  There  is  a  great  impulse  to  virtue  in  knowing 
something  well.  To  know  it  well  is  to  come  into 
direct  contact  with  its  facts  or  laws,  to  feel  that  its 
qualities  and  forces  are  inevitable.  To  do  this  is 
the  essence  of  nature-study  in  all  its  forms. 

The  claim  has  been  made  that  history  treats  of 
the  actions  of  men,  and  that  it  therefore  gives  the 
student  the  basis  of  right  conduct.  But  neither  of 
these  propositions  is  true.  History  treats  of  the 
records  of  the  acts  of  men  and  nations.  But  it  does 
not  involve  the  action  of  the  student  himself.  The 
men  and  women  who  act  in  history  are  not  the 
boys  and  girls  we  are  training.  Their  lives  are 


TEACHING     TRUTH    BY   LYING    STORIES.      249 

developed  through  their  own  efforts,  not  by  con 
templation  of  the  efforts  of  others.  They  work  out 
their  problem  of  action  more  surely  by  dissecting 
frogs  or  hatching  butterflies  than  by  what  we  tell 
them  of  Lycurgus  or  Joan  of  Arc.  Their  reason 
for  virtuous  action  must  lie  in  their  own  knowledge 
of  what  is  right,  not  in  the  fact  that  Lincoln,  or 
Washington,  or  William  Tell,  or  some  other  half- 
mythical  personage  would  have  done  so  and  so 
under  like  conditions. 

The  rocks  and  shells,  the  frogs  and  lilies  always 
tell  the  absolute  truth.  Association  with  these,  un 
der  right  direction,  will  build  up  a  habit  of  truth 
fulness,  which  the  lying  story  of  the  cherry-tree 
is  powerless  to  effect.  If  history  is  to  be  made  an 
agency  for  moral  training,  it  must  become  a  nature- 
study.  It  must  be  the  study  of  original  documents. 
When  it  is  pursued  in  this  way  it  has  the  value  of 
other  nature-studies.  But  it  is  carried  on  under 
great  limitations.  Its  manuscripts  are  scarce,  while 
every  leaf  on  the  tree  is  an  original  document  in 
botany.  When  a  thousand  are  used,  or  used  up,  the 
archives  of  nature  are  just  as  full  as  ever. 

From  the  intimate  affinity  with  the  problems 
of  life,  the  problems  of  nature-study  derive  a  large 
part  of  their  value.  Because  life  deals  with  reali- 


250       NATURE-STUDY    AND    MORAL     CULTURE. 

ties,  the  visible  agents  of  the  overmastering  fates, 
it  is  well  that  our  children  should  study  the  real, 
rather  than  the  conventional.  Let  them  come  in 
contact  with  the  inevitable,  instead  of  the  "  made- 
up,"  with  laws  and  forces  which  can  be  traced  in 
objects  and  forms  actually  before  them,  rather  than 
with  those  which  seem  arbitrary  or  which  remain 
inscrutable.  To  use  concrete  illustrations,  there  is 
a  greater  moral  value  in  the  study  of  magnets  than 
in  the  distinction  between  shall  and  will,  in  the 
study  of  birds  or  rocks  than  in  that  of  diacritical 
marks  or  postage-stamps,  in  the  development  of  a 
frog  than  in  the  longer  or  the  shorter  catechism, 
in  the  study  of  things  than  in  the  study  of  ab 
stractions.  There  is  doubtless  a  law  underlying 
abstractions  and  conventionalities,  a  law  of  cate 
chisms,  or  postage-stamps,  or  grammatical  sole 
cisms,  but  it  does  not  appear  to  the  student.  Its 
consideration  does  not  strengthen  his  impression 
of  inevitable  truth.  There  is  the  greatest  moral 
value,  as  well  as  intellectual  value,  in  the  inde 
pendence  that  comes  from  knowing,  and  knowing 
that  one  knows  and  why  he  knows.  This  gives 
spinal  column  to  character,  which  is  not  found  in 
the  flabby  goodness  of  imitation  or  the  hysteric 
virtue  of  suggestion.  Knowing  what  is  right,  and 


MAN    A    MACHINE    FOR    ACTION.  251 

why  it  is  right,  before  doing  it  is  the  basis  of  great 
ness  of  character. 

The  nervous  system  of  the  animal  or  the  man  is 
essentially  a  device  to  make  action  effective  and  to 
keep  it  safe.  The  animal  is  a  machine  in  action. 
Toward  the  end  of  motion  all  other  mental  pro 
cesses  tend.  All  functions  of  the  brain,  all  forms 
of  nerve  impulse  are  modifications  of  the  simple 
reflex  action,  the  automatic  transfer  of  sensations 
derived  from  external  objects  into  movements  of 
the  body. 

The  sensory  nerves  furnish  the  animal  or  man  all 
knowledge  of  the  external  world.  The  brain,  sit 
ting  in  absolute  darkness,  judges  these  sensations, 
and  sends  out  corresponding  impulses  to  action. 
The  sensory  nerves  are  the  brain's  sole  teachers; 
the  motor  nerves,  and  through  them  the  muscles, 
are  the  brain's  only  servants.  The  untrained  brain 
learns  its  lessons  poorly,  and  its  commands  are 
vacillating  and  ineffective.  In  like  manner,  the 
brain  which  has  been  misued,  shows  its  defects  in 
ill-chosen  actions  —  the  actions  against  which  Na 
ture  protests  through  her  scourge  of  misery.  In 
this  fact,  that  nerve  alteration  means  ineffective 
action,  lying  brain,  and  lying  nerves,  rests  the 
great  argument  for  temperance,  the  great  argu- 


252       MATURE-STUDY   AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

merit  against  all  forms  of  nerve  tampering,  from 
the  coffee  habit  to  the  cataleptic  "revival  of  re 
ligion." 

The  senses  are  intensely  practical  in  their  relation 
to  life.  The  processes  of  natural  selection  make 
and  keep  them  so.  Only  those  phases  of  reality 
which  our  ancestors  could  render  into  action  are 
shown  to  us  by  our  senses.  If  we  can  do  nothing 
in  any  case,  we  know  nothing  about  it.  The  senses 
tell  us  essential  truth  about  rocks  and  trees,  food 
and  shelter,  friends  and  enemies.  They  answer  no 
problems  in  chemistry.  They  tell  us  nothing  about 
atom  or  molecule.  They  give  us  no  ultimate  facts. 
"Whatever  is  so  small  that  we  cannot  handle  it  is 
too  small  to  be  seen.  Whatever  is  too  distant  to  be 
reached  is  not  truthfully  reported.  The  "X-rays" 
of  light  we  cannot  see,  because  our  ancestors  could 
not  deal  with  them.  The  sun  and  stars,  the  clouds 
and  the  sky  are  not  at  all  what  they  appear  to  be. 
The  truthfulness  of  the  senses  fails  as  the  square  of 
the  distance  increases.  Were  it  not  so,  we  should  be 
smothered  by  truth;  we  should  be  overwhelmed  by 
the  multiplicity  of  our  own  sensations,  and  truth 
ful  response  in  action  would  become  impossible. 
Hypersesthesia  of  any  or  all  of  the  senses  is  a  source 
of  confusion,  not  of  strength.  It  is  essentially  a 


WHAT    THE    WILL    HOLDS    DOWN.  253 

phase  of  disease,  and  it  shows  itself  in  ineffective 
ness,  not  in  increased  power. 

Besides  the  actual  sensations,  the  so-called  reali 
ties,  the  brain  retains  also  the  sensations  which 
have  been,  and  which  are  not  wholly  lost.  Mem 
ory-pictures  crowd  the  mind,  mingling  with  pic 
tures  which  are  brought  in  afresh  by  the  senses. 
The  force  of  suggestion  causes  the  mental  states  or 
conditions  of  one  person  to  repeat  themselves  in 
another.  Abnormal  conditions  of  the  brain  itself 
furnish  another  series  of  feelings  with  which  the 
brain  must  deal.  Moreover,  the  brain  is  charged 
with  impulses  to  action  passed  on  from  generation 
to  generation,  surviving  because  they  are  useful. 
With  all  these  arises  the  necessity  for  choice  as  a 
function  of  the  mind.  The  mind  must  neglect  or 
suppress  all  sensations  which  it  cannot  weave  into 
action.  The  dog  sees  nothing  that  does  not  belong 
to  its  little  world.  The  man  in  search  of  mush 
rooms  "  tramples  down  oak-trees  in  his  walks."  To 
select  the  sensations  that  concern  us  is  the  basis  of 
the  power  of  attention.  The  suppression  of  unde- 
sired  actions  is  a  function  of  the  will.  To  find  data 
for  choice  among  the  possible  motor  responses  is  a 
function  of  the  intellect.  Intellectual  persistency  is 
the  essence  of  individual  character. 


254       NATURE-STUDY   AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

As  the  conditions  of  life  become  more  complex,  it 
becomes  necessary  for  action  to  be  more  carefully 
selected.  Wisdom  is  the  parent  of  virtue.  Knowing 
what  should  be  done  logically  precedes  doing  it. 
Good  impulses  and  good  intentions  do  not  make 
action  right  or  safe.  In  the  long  run,  action  is 
tested  not  by  its  motives,  but  by  its  results. 

The  child,  when  he  comes  into  the  world,  has 
everything  to  learn.  His  nervous  system  is  charged 
with  tendencies  to  reaction  and  impulses  to  motion, 
which  have  their  origin  in  survivals  from  ancestral 
experience.  Exact  knowledge,  by  which  his  own 
actions  can  be  made  exact,  must  come  through  his 
own  experience.  The  experience  of  others  must  be 
expressed  in  terms  of  his  own  before  it  becomes  wis 
dom.  Wisdom,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  is  know 
ing  what  it  is  best  to  do  next.  Virtue  is  doing  it. 
Doing  right  becomes  habit,  if  it  is  pursued  long 
enough.  It  becomes  a  "  second  nature,"  or,  we  may 
say,  a  higher  heredity.  The  formation  of  a  higher 
heredity  of  wisdom  and  virtue,  of  knowing  right 
and  doing  right,  is  the  basis  of  character-building. 

The  moral  character  is  based  on  knowing  the 
best,  choosing  the  best,  and  doing  the  best.  It 
cannot  be  built  up  on  imitation.  By  imitation, 
suggestion,  and  conventionality  the  masses  are 


"  WHAT    CAN   I    DO     WITH    IT?"  255 

formed  and  controlled.  To  build  up  a  man  is  a 
nobler  process,  demanding  materials  and  methods 
of  a  higher  order.  The  growth  of  man  is  the  asser 
tion  of  individuality.  Only  robust  men  can  make 
history.  Others  may  adorn  it,  disfigure  it,  or  vul 
garize  it. 

The  first  relation  of  the  child  to  external  things 
is  expressed  in  this:  What  can  I  do  with  it? 
What  is  its  relation  to  me?  The  sensation  goes 
over  into  thought,  the  thought  into  action.  Thus 
the  impression  of  the  object  is  built  into  the  little 
universe  of  his  mind.  The  object  and  the  action  it 
implies  are  closely  associated.  As  more  objects  are 
apprehended,  more  complex  relations  arise,  but  the 
primal  condition  remains — What  can  I  do  with 
it?  Sensation,  thought,  action  —  this  is  the  natural 
sequence  of  each  completed  mental  process.  As 
volition  passes  over  into  action,  so  does  science 
into  art,  knowledge  into  power,  wisdom  into  virtue. 

By  the  study  of  realities  wisdom  is  built  up.  In 
the  relations  of  objects  he  can  touch  and  move,  the 
child  comes  to  find  the  limitations  of  his  powers, 
the  laws  that  govern  phenomena,  and  to  which  his 
actions  must  be  in  obedience.  So  long  as  he  deals 
with  realities,  these  laws  stand  in  their  proper  rela 
tion.  "  So  simple,  so  natural,  so  true,"  says  Agassiz. 


256       NATURE-STUDY    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

"  This  is  the  charm  of  dealing  with  Nature  herself. 
She  brings  us  back  to  absolute  truth  so  often  as  we 
wander." 

So  long  as  a  child  is  lead  from  one  reality  to 
another,  never  lost  in  words  or  in  abstractions,  so 
long  this  natural  relation  remains.  What  can  I  do 
with  it?  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom.  What  is  it 
to  me  ?  is  the  basis  of  personal  virtue. 

While  a  child  remains  about  the  home  of  his 
boyhood,  he  knows  which  way  is  north  and  which 
is  east.  He  does  not  need  to  orientate  himself,  be 
cause  in  his  short  trips  he  never  loses  his  sense  of 
space  direction.  But  let  him  take  a  rapid  journey 
in  the  cars  or  in  the  night,  and  he  may  find  him 
self  in  strange  relations.  The  sun  no  longer  rises 
in  the  east,  the  sense  of  reality  in  directions  is  gone, 
and  it  is  a  painful  effort  for  him  to  join  the  new 
impressions  to  the  old.  The  process  of  orientation 
is  a  difficult  one,  and  if  facing  the  sunrise  in  the 
morning  were  a  deed  of  necessity  in  his  religion, 
this  deed  would  not  be  accurately  performed. 

This  homely  illustration  applies  to  the  child.  He 
is  taken  from  his  little  world  of  realities,  a  world  in 
which  the  sun  rises  in  the  east,  the  dogs  bark,  the 
grasshopper  leaps,  the  water  falls,  and  the  rela 
tion  of  cause  and  effect  appear  plain  and  natural. 


THE    HIGHER    HEREDITY.  257 

In  these  simple  relations  moral  laws  become  evi 
dent.  "  The  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire,"  and  this 
dread  shows  itself  in  action.  The  child  learns  what 
to  do  next,  and  to  some  extent  does  it.  By  practice 
in  personal  responsibility  in  little  things,  he  can  be 
led  to  wisdom  in  large  ones.  For  the  power  to  do 
great  things  in  the  moral  world  comes  from  doing 
the  right  in  small  things.  It  is  not  often  that  a  man 
who  knows  that  there  is  a  right  does  the  wrong. 
Men  who  do  wrong  are  either  ignorant  that  there  is 
a  right,  or  else  they  have  failed  in  their  orientation 
and  look  upon  right  as  wrong.  It  is  the  clinching 
of  good  purposes  w?'th  good  actions  that  makes  the 
man.  This  is  the  higher  heredity  that  is  not  the 
gift  of  father  or  mother,  but  is  the  man's  own  work 
on  himself. 

The  impression  of  realities  is  the  basis  of  sound 
morals  as  well  as  of  sound  judgment.  By  adding 
near  things  to  near,  the  child  grows  in  knowledge. 
"Knowledge  set  in  order"  is  science.  Nature-study 
is  the  beginning  of  science.  It  is  the  science  of  the 
child.  To  the  child  training  in  methods  of  acquir 
ing  knowledge  is  more  valuable  than  knowledge 
itself.  In  general,  throughout  life  sound  methods 
are  more  valuable  than  sound  information.  Self- 
direction  is  more  important  than  innocence.  The 


258       NATURE-STUDY    AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

fool  may  be  innocent.     Only  the  sane  and  wise  can 
be  virtuous. 

It  is  the  function  of  science  to  find  out  the  real 
nature  of  the  universe.  Its  purpose  is  to  eliminate 
the  personal  equation  and  the  human  equation  in 
statements  of  truth.  By  methods  of  precision  of 
thought  and  instruments  of  precision  in  observa 
tion,  it  seeks  to  make  our  knowledge  of  the  small, 
the  distant,  the  invisible,  the  mysterious  as  accurate 
as  our  knowledge  of  the  common  things  men  have 
handled  for  ages.  It  seeks  to  make  our  knowledge 
of  common  things  exact  and  precise,  that  exactness 
and  precision  may  be  translated  into  action.  The 
ultimate  end  of  science,  as  well  as  its  initial  im 
pulse,  is  the  regulation  of  human  conduct.  To 
make  right  action  possible  and  prevalent  is  the 
function  of  science.  The  "  world  as  it  is  "  is  the 
province  of  science.  In  proportion  as  our  actions 
conform  to  the  conditions  of  the  world  as  it  is,  do 
we  find  the  world  beautiful,  glorious,  divine.  The 
truth  of  the  "  world  as  it  is  "  must  be  the  ultimate 
inspiration  of  art,  poetry,  and  religion.  The  world 
as  men  have  agreed  to  say  it  is,  is  quite  another 
matter.  The  less  our  children  hear  of  this,  the 
less  they  will  have  to  unlearn  in  their  future  de 
velopment. 


THE    LOST    DIRECTION    OF    SUNRISE.          259 

When  a  child  is  taken  from  nature  to  the  schools, 
he  is  usually  brought  into  an  atmosphere  of  con 
ventionality.  Here  he  is  not  to  do,  but  to  imitate; 
not  to  see,  nor  to  handle,  nor  to  create,  but  to  remem 
ber.  He  is,  moreover,  to  remember  not  his  own 
realities,  but  the  written  or  spoken  ideas  of  others. 
He  is  dragged  through  a  wilderness  of  grammar, 
with  thickets  of  diacritical  marks,  into  the  desert  of 
metaphysics.  He  is  taught  to  do  right,  not  because 
right  action  is  in  the  nature  of  things,  the  nature  of 
himself  and  the  things  about  him,  but  because  he 
will  be  punished  somehow  if  he  does  not. 

He  is  given  a  medley  of  words  without  ideas- 
He  is  taught  declensions  and  conjugations  without 
number  in  his  own  and  other  tongues.  He  learns 
things  easily  by  rote ;  so  his  teachers  fill  him  with 
rote-learning.  Hence,  grammar  and  language  have 
become  stereotyped  as  teaching  without  a  thought 
as  to  whether  undigested  words  may  be  intellectual 
poison.  And  as  the  good  heart  depends  on  the 
good  brain,  undigested  ideas  become  moral  poison 
as  well.  No  one  can  tell  how  much  of  the  bad 
morals  and  worse  manners  of  the  conventional 
college  boy  of  the  past  has  been  due  to  intellectual 
dyspepsia  from  undigested  words. 

In  such  manner  the  child  is  bound  to  lose  his 


260      NATURE- STUDY   AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

orientation  as  to  the  forces  which  surround  him. 
If  he  does  not  recover  it,  he  will  spend  his  life  in  a 
world  of  unused  fancies  and  realities.  Nonsense 
will  seem  half  truth,  and  his  appreciation  of  truth 
will  be  vitiated  by  lack  of  clearness  of  definition — 
by  its  close  relation  to  nonsense. 

That  this  is  no  slight  defect  can  be  shown  in 
every  community.  There  is  no  intellectual  craze  so 
absurd  as  not  to  have  a  following  among  educated 
men  and  women.  There  is  no  scheme  for  the  reno 
vation  of  the  social  order  so  silly  that  educated 
men  will  not  invest  their  money  in  it.  There  is  no 
medical  fraud  so  shameless  that  educated  men  will 
not  give  it  their  certificate.  There  is  no  nonsense 
so  unscientific  that  men  called  educated  will  not 
accept  it  as  science. 

It  should  be  a  function  of  the  schools  to  build  up 
common  sense.  Folly  should  be  crowded  out  of  the 
schools.  We  have  furnished  costly  lunatic  asylums 
for  its  accommodation.  That  our  schools  are  in  a 
degree  responsible  for  current  follies,  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  We  have  many  teachers  who  have  never 
seen  a  truth  in  their  lives.  There  are  many  who 
have  never  felt  the  impact  of  an  idea.  There  are 
many  who  have  lost  their  own  orientation  in  their 
youth,  and  who  have  never  since  been  able  to  point 


OBEDIENCE    TO    SEALED    ORDERS.  261 

out  the  sunrise  to  others.  It  is  no  extravagance  of 
language  to  say  that  diacritical  marks  lead  to  the 
cocaine  habit;  nor  that  the  ethics  of  metaphysics 
points  the  way  to  the  Higher  Foolishness.  There 
are  many  links  in  the  chain  of  decadence,  but  its 
finger-posts  all  point  downward. 

"Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion  —  Knowledge, 
"Will,  the  third,  Obedience."  This  statement,  which 
Lowell  applies  to  nations,  belongs  to  the  individual 
man  as  well.  It  is  written  in  the  structure  of  his 
brain — knowledge,  volition,  action, — and  all  three 
elements  must  be  sound,  if  action  is  to  be  safe  or 
effective. 

But  obedience  must  be  active,  not  passive.  The 
obedience  of  the  lower  animals  is  automatic,  and 
therefore  in  its  limits  measurably  perfect.  Lack  of 
obedience  means  the  extinction  of  the  race.  Only 
the  obedient  survive,  and  hence  comes  about  obe 
dience  to  "  sealed  orders,"  obedience  by  reflex  action, 
in  which  the  will  takes  little  part. 

In  the  early  stages  of  human  development,  the 
instincts  of  obedience  were  dominant.  Great  among 
these  is  the  instinct  of  conventionality,  by  which 
each  man  follows  the  path  others  have  found  safe. 
The  Church  and  the  State,  organizations  of  the 
strong,  have  assumed  the  direction  of  the  weak.  It 


262       NATURE-STUDY   AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

has  often  resulted  that  the  wiser  this  direction,  the 
greater  the  weakness  it  was  called  on  to  control. 
The  "  sealed  orders "  of  human  institutions  took 
the  place  of  the  automatism  of  instinct.  Against 
"sealed  orders"  the  individual  man  has  been  in 
constant  protest.  The  '*  warfare  of  science "  was 
part  of  this  long  struggle.  The  Reformation,  the 
revival  of  learning^  the  growth  of  democracy,  are 
all  phases  of  this  great  conflict. 

The  function  of  democracy  is  not  good  govern 
ment.  If  that  were  all,  it  would  not  deserve  the 
efforts  spent  on  it.  Better  government  than  any 
king  or  congress  or  democracy  has  yet  given  could 
be  had  in  simpler  and  cheaper  ways.  The  automa 
tic  scheme  of  competitive  examinations  would  give 
us  better  rulers  at  half  the  present  cost.  Even  an 
ordinary  intelligence  office,  or  "  statesman's  employ 
ment  bureau,"  would  serve  us  better  than  conven 
tions  and  elections.  But  a  people  which  could  be 
ruled  in  that  way,  content  to  be  governed  well  by 
forces  outside  itself,  would  not  be  worth  the  saving. 
But  this  is  not  the  point  at  issue.  Government  too 
good,  as  well  as  too  bad,  may  have  a  baneful  influ 
ence  on  men.  Its  character  is  a  secondary  matter. 
The  purpose  of  self-government  is  to  intensify  indi 
vidual  responsibility;  to  promote  abortive  attempts 


LIFE,    THE   OLDEST  AND   BEST    UNIVERSITY.  263 

at  wisdom,  through  which  true  wisdom  may  come 
at  last.  Democracy  is  nature-study  on  a  grand 
scale.  The  republic  is  a  huge  laboratory  of  civics, 
a  laboratory  in  which  strange  experiments  are 
performed ;  but  by  which,  as  in  other  laboratories, 
wisdom  may  arise  from  experience,  and  having 
arisen,  may  work  itself  out  into  virtue. 

"  The  oldest  and  best-endowed  university  in  the 
world,"  Dr.  Parkhurst  tells  us, "  is  Life  itself.  Prob 
lems  tumble  easily  apart  in  the  field  that  refuse  to 
give  up  their  secret  in  the  study,  or  even  in  the 
closet.  Reality  is  what  educates  us,  and  reality 
never  comes  so  close  to  us,  with  all  its  powers  of 
discipline,  as  when  we  encounter  it  in  action.  In 
books  we  find  Truth  in  black  and  white;  but  in  the 
rush  of  events  we  see  Truth  at  work.  It  is  only 
when  Truth  is  busy  and  we  are  ourselves  mixed  up 
in  its  activities  that  we  learn  to  know  of  how  much 
we  are  capable,  or  even  the  power  by  which  these 
capabilities  can  be  made  over  into  effect." 

Mr.  Wilbur  F.  Jackman  has  well  said :  "  Children 
always  start  with  imitation,  and  very  few  people 
ever  get  beyond  it.  The  true  moral  act,  however, 
is  one  performed  in  accordance  with  a  known  law 
that  is  just  as  natural  as  the  law  which  determines 
which  way  a  stone  shall  fall.  The  individual  be- 


264       NATURE-STUDY   AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

conies  moral  in  the  highest  sense  when  he  chooses 
to  obey  this  law  by  acting  in  accordance  with  it." 
Conventionality  is  not  morality,  and  may  co-exist 
with  vice  as  well  as  with  virtue.  Obedience  has 
little  permanence  unless  it  be  intelligent  obedience. 

It  is,  of  course,  true  that  wrong  information  may 
lead  sometimes  to  right  action,  as  falsehood  may 
secure  obedience  to  a  natural  law  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  violated.  But  in  the  long  run 
men  and  nations  pay  dearly  for  every  illusion  they 
cherish.  For  every  sick  man  healed  at  Denver  or 
Lourdes,  ten  well  men  may  be  made  sick.  Faith 
cure  and  patent  medicines  feed  on  the  same  vic 
tim.  For  every  Schlatter  who  is  worshiped  as  a 
saint,  some  equally  harmless  lunatic  will  be  stoned 
as  a  witch.  This  scientific  age  is  beset  by  the  non- 
science  which  its  altruism  has  made  safe.  The 
development  of  the  common  sense  of  the  people 
has  given  security  to  a  vast  horde  of  follies,  which 
would  be  destroyed  in  the  unchecked  competition 
of  life.  It  is  the  soundness  of  our  age  which  has 
made  what  we  call  its  decadence  possible.  It  is  the 
undercurrent  of  science  which  has  given  security 
to  human  life,  a  security  which  obtains  for  fools  as 
well  as  for  sages. 

For  protection  against  all  these  follies  which  so 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   DESPAIR.  265 

soon  fall  into  vices,  or  decay  into  insanity,  we  must 
look  to  the  schools.  A  sound  recognition  of  cause 
and  effect  in  human  affairs  is  our  best  safeguard. 
The  old  common  sense  of  the  "  un-high-schooled 
man/'  aided  by  instruments  of  precision,  and  di 
rected  by  logic,  must  be  carried  over  into  the 
schools.  Clear  thinking  and  clean  acting,  we  be 
lieve,  are  results  of  the  study  of  nature.  When 
men  have  made  themselves  wise,  in  the  wisdom 
which  may  be  completed  in  action,  they  have  never 
failed  to  make  themselves  good.  When  men  have 
become  wise  with  the  lore  of  others,  the  learning 
which  ends  in  self,  and  does  not  spend  itself  in 
action,  they  have  been  neither  virtuous  nor  hap 
py.  "  Much  learning  is  a  weariness  of  the  flesh." 
Thought  without  action  ends  in  intense  fatigue  of 
soul,  the  disgust  with  all  the  "  sorry  scheme  of 
things  entire,"  which  is  the  mark  of  the  unwhole 
some  and  insane  philosophy  of  Pessimism.  This 
philosophy  finds  its  condemnation  in  the  fact  that 
it  has  never  yet  been  translated  into  pure  and 
helpful  life. 

With  our  children,  the  study  of  words  and 
abstractions  alone  may,  in  its  degree,  produce  the 
same  results.  Nature-studies  have  long  been  valued 
as  a  "means  of  grace,"  because  they  arouse  the  en- 


266       NATURE-STUDY   AND    MORAL    CULTURE. 

thusiasm,  the  love  of  work  which  belongs  to  open- 
eyed  youth.  The  child  blase  with  moral  precepts 
and  irregular  conjugations  turns  with  delight  to 
the  unrolling  of  ferns  and  the  song  of  birds.  There 
is  a  moral  training  in  clearness  and  tangibility. 
An  occult  impulse  to  vice  is  hidden  in  all  vague 
ness  and  in  all  teachings  meant  to  be  heard  but  not 
to  be  understood.  Nature  is  never  obscure,  never 
occult,  never  esoteric.  She  must  be  questioned  in 
earnest,  else  she  will  not  reply.  But  to  every  serious 
question  she  returns  a  serious  answer.  "  Simple, 
natural,  and  true "  should  make  the  impression  of 
simplicity  and  truth.  Truth  and  virtue  are  but 
opposite  sides  of  the  same  shield.  As  leaves  pass 
over  into  flowers,  and  flowers  into  fruit,  so  are  wis 
dom,  virtue,  and  happiness  inseparably  related. 


THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 


THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE.* 

EACH  man  that  lives  is,  in  part,  a  slave,  because 
he  is  a  living  being.  This  belongs  to  the  defi 
nition  of  life  itself.  Each  creature  must  bend  its 
back  to  the  lash  of  its  environment.  We  imagine 
life  without  conditions— life  free  from  the  pres 
sure  of  insensate  things  outside  us  or  within.  But 
such  life  is  the  dream  of  the  philosopher.  We  have 
never  known  it.  The  records  of  the  life  we  know 
are  full  of  concessions  to  such  pressure. 

The  vegetative  part  of  life,  that  part  which  finds 
its  expression  in  physical  growth,  and  sustenance, 
and  death,  must  always  be  slavery.  The  old  primal 
hunger  of  the  protoplasm  rules  over  it  all.  Each  of 
the  myriad  cells  of  which  man  is  made  must  be  fed 
and  cared  for.  The  perennial  hunger  of  these  cells 
he  must  stifle.  This  hunger  began  when  life  began. 
It  will  cease  only  when  life  ceases.  It  will  last  till 
the  water  of  the  sea  is  drained,  the  great  lights  are 
put  out,  and  the  useless  earth  is  hung  up  empty  in 
the  archives  of  the  universe. 


*  Address  to  the  Graduating  Class,  Leland  Stanford  Jr.  University, 
May  21,18*. 


270  THE   HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

This  old  hunger  the  individual  man  must  each 
day  meet  and  satisfy.  He  must  do  this  for  himself; 
else,  in  the  long  run,  it  will  not  be  done.  If  others 
help  feed  him,  he  must  feed  others  in  return.  This 
return  is  not  charity  nor  sacrifice;  it  is  simply 
exchange  of  work.  It  is  the  division  of  labor  in 
servitude.  Directly  or  indirectly,  each  must  pay 
his  debt  of  life.  There  are  a  few,  as  the  world  goes, 
who  in  luxury  or  pauperism  have  this  debt  paid 
for  them  by  others.  But  there  are  not  many  of 
these  fugitive  slaves.  The  number  will  never  be 
great;  for  the  lineage  of  idleness  is  never  long  nor 
strong. 

When  this  debt  is  paid,  the  slave  becomes  the 
man.  Nature  counts  as  men  only  those  who  are 
free.  Freedom  springs  from  within.  No  outside 
power  can  give  it.  Board  and  lodging  on  the  earth 
once  paid,  a  man's  resources  are  his  own.  These  he 
can  give  or  hold.  By  the  fullness  of  these  is  he 
measured.  All  acquisitions  of  man,  Emerson  tells 
us,  "are  victories  of  the  good  brain  and  brave 
heart;  the  world  belongs  to  the  energetic,  belongs 
to  the  wise.  It  is  in  vain  to  make  a  paradise  but 
for  good  men." 

In  the  ancient  lore  of  the  Jews,  so  Rabbi  Yoor- 
sanger  tells  us,  it  is  written,  "  Serve  the  Lord,  not 


ONLY    THE    GODS    CAN    SERVE.  271 

as  slaves  hoping  for  reward,  but  as  gods  who  will 
take  no  reward."  The  meaning  of  the  old  saying  is 
this  :  Only  the  gods  can  serve. 

Those  who  have  nothing  have  nothing  to  give. 
He  who  serves  as  a  slave  serves  himself  only.  That 
he  hopes  for  a  reward  shows  that  to  himself  his 
service  is  really  given.  To  serve  the  Lord,  accord 
ing  to  another  old  saying,  is  to  help  one's  fellow- 
men.  The  Eternal  asks  not  of  mortals  that  they 
assist  Him  with  His  earth.  The  tough  old  world 
has  been  His  for  centuries  of  centuries  before  it 
came  to  be  ours,  and  we  can  neither  make  it  nor 
mar  it.  We  were  not  consulted  when  its  founda 
tions  were  laid  in  the  deep.  The  waves  and  the 
storms,  the  sunshine  and  the  song  of  birds  need  not 
our  aid.  They  will  take  care  of  themselves.  Life 
is  the  only  material  that  is  plastic  in  our  hand. 
Only  man  can  be  helped  by  man. 

When  they  hung  John  Brown  in  Virginia,  many 
said,  you  remember,  that  in  resisting  the  Govern 
ment  he  had  thrown  away  his  life,  and  would  gain 
nothing  for  it.  He  could  not,  as  Thoreau  said  at 
the  time,  get  a  vote  of  thanks  or  a  pair  of  boots  for 
his  life.  He  could  not  get  four-and-sixpence  a  day 
for  being  hung,  take  the  year  around.  But  he  was 
not  asking  for  a  vote  of  thanks.  It  was  not  for 


272  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

the  four-and-sixpence  a  day  that  he  stood  between 
brute  force  and  its  victims.  It  was  to  show  men 
the  nature  of  slavery.  It  was  to  help  his  fellow- 
citizens  to  read  the  story  of  their  institutions  in  the 
light  of  history.  "  You  can  get  more,"  Thoreau 
went  on  to  say,  "  in  your  market  [at  Concord]  for  a 
quart  of  milk  than  you  can  for  a  quart  of  blood ; 
but  yours  is  not  the  market  heroes  carry  their 
blood  to."  The  blood  of  heroes  is  not  sold  by  the 
quart.  The  great,  strong,  noble,  and  pure  of  this 
world,  those  who  have  made  our  race  worthy  to  be 
called  men,  have  not  been  paid  by  the  day  or  by 
the  quart ;  not  by  riches,  nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor 
anything  that  man  can  give.  Out  of  the  fullness 
of  their  lives  have  they  served  the  Lord.  Out  of 
the  wealth  of  their  resources  have  they  helped  their 
fellow-men. 

The  great  man  cannot  be  a  self-seeker.  The 
greatness  of  a  Napoleon  or  an  Alexander  is  the 
greatness  of  gluttony.  It  is  slavery  on  a  grand 
scale.  What  men  have  done  for  their  own  glory 
or  aggrandizement  has  left  no  permanent  impress. 
"I  have  carried  out  nothing,"  says  the  warrior, 
Sigurd  Slembe.  "  I  have  not  sown  the  least  grain 
nor  laid  one  stone  upon  another  to  witness  that  I 
have  lived."  Napoleon  could  have  said  as  much, 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    GREATNESS.  273 

if,  like  Sigurd,  he  had  stood  "  upon  his  own  grave 
and  heard  the  great  bell  ring."  The  tragedy  of 
the  Isle  of  St.  Helena  lay  not  in  the  failure  of 
effort,  but  in  the  futility  of  the  aim  to  which  effort 
was  directed.  There  was  no  tragedy  of  the  Isle 
of  Patrnos. 

What  such  men  have  torn  down  remains  torn 
down.  All  this  would  soon  have  fallen  of  itself;  for 
that  which  has  life  in  it  cannot,  be  destroyed  by 
force.  But  what  such  men  have  built  has  fallen 
when  their  hands  have  ceased  to  hold  it  up.  The 
names  history  cherishes  are  those  of  men  of  another 
type.  Only  "  a  man  too  simply  great  to  scheme  for 
his  proper  self"  is  great  enough  to  become  a  pillar 
of  the  ages. 

It  is  part  of  the  duty  of  higher  education  to  build 
up  ideals  of  noble  freedom.  It  is  not  for  help  in 
the  vegetative  work  of  life  that  you  go  to  college. 
You  are  just  as  good  a  slave  without  it.  You  can 
earn  your  board  and  lodging  without  the  formality 
of  culture.  The  training  of  the  college  will  make 
your  power  for  action  greater,  no  doubt;  but  it  will 
also  magnify  your  needs.  The  debt  of  life  a  scholar 
has  to  pay  is  greater  than  that  paid  by  the  clown. 
And  the  higher  sacrifice  the  scholar  may  be  called 
upon  to  make  grows  with  the  increased  fullness  of 


274  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

his  life.  Greater  needs  go  with  greater  power,  and 
both  mean  greater  opportunity  for  sacrifice. 

In  the  days  you  have  been  with  us  you  should 
have  formed  some  ideals.  You  should  have  bound 
these  ideals  together  with  the  chain  of  "  well-spent 
yesterdays,"  the  higher  heredity  which  comes  not 
from  your  ancestors,  but  which  each  man  must 
build  up  for  himself.  You  should  have  done  some 
thing  in  the  direction  of  the  life  of  higher  sacrifice, 
the  life  that  from  the  fullness  of  its  resources  can 
have  something  to  give. 

Such  sacrifice  is  not  waste,  but  service;  not 
spending,  but  accomplishing.  Many  men,  and 
more  women,  spend  their  lives  for  others  when 
others  would  have  been  better  served  if  they  had 
saved  themselves.  Mere  giving  is  not  service. 
"Charity  that  is  irrational  and  impulsive  giving, 
is  a  waste,  whether  of  money  or  of  life."  "  Char 
ity  creates  half  the  misery  she  relieves ;  she  can 
not  relieve  half  the  misery  she  creates." 

The  men  you  meet  as  you  leave  these  halls  will 
not  understand  your  ideals.  They  will  not  know 
that  your  life  is  not  bound  up  in  the  present,  but 
has  something  to  ask  or  to  give  for  the  future.  Till 
they  understand  you  they  will  not  yield  you  their 
sympathies.  They  may  jeer  at  you  because  the 


THE  WORLDS  OF  THOUGHT  AND   OF  ACTION.    275 

whip  they  respond  to  leaves  no  mark  upon  you. 
They  will  try  to  buy  you,  because  the  Devil  has 
always  bid  high  for  the  lives  of  young  men  with 
ideals.  A  man  in  his  market  stands  always  above 
par.  Slaves  are  his  stock  in  trade.  If  a  man  of 
power  can  be  had  for  base  purposes,  he  can  be  sure 
of  an  immediate  reward.  You  can  sell  your  blood 
for  its  weight  in  milk,  or  for  its  weight  in  gold — 
whatever  you  choose, —  if  you  are  willing  to  put  it 
up  for  sale.  You  can  sell  your  will  for  the  king 
doms  of  the  earth ;  and  you  vrill  see,  or  seem  to 
see,  many  of  your  associates  making  just  such  bar 
gains.  But  in  this  be  not  deceived.  No  young  man 
worthy  of  anything  else  ever  sold  himself  to  the 
Devil.  These  are  dummy  sales.  The  Devil  puts 
his  own  up  at  auction  in  hope  of  catching  others. 
If  you  fall  into  his  hands,  you  had  not  far  to  fall. 
You  were  already  ripe  for  his  clutches. 

When  a  man  steps  forth  from  the  college,  he  is 
tested  once  for  all.  It  takes  but  a  year  or  two  to 
prove  his  mettle.  In  the  college  high  ideals  pre 
vail,  and  the  intellectual  life  is  taken  as  a  matter 
of  course.  In  the  world  outside  it  appears  other 
wise,  though  the  conditions  of  success  are  in  fact 
just  the  same.  It  is  not  true,  though  it  seems  so, 
that  the  common  life  is  a  game  of  "  grasping  and 


276  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

griping,  with  a  whine  for  mercy  at  the  end  of  it." 
It  is  your  own  fault  if  you  find  it  so.  It  is  not 
true  that  the  whole  of  man  is  occupied  with  the 
effort  ato  live  just  asking  but  to  live,  to  live  just 
begging  but  to  be."  The  world  of  thought  and  the 
world  of  action  are  one  in  nature.  In  both  truth 
and  love  are  strength,  and  folly  and  selfishness 
are  weakness.  There  is  no  confusion  of  right  and 
wrong  in  the  mind  of  the  Fates.  It  is  only  in  our 
poor  bewildered  slave  intellects  that  evil  passes  for 
power.  All  about  us  in  the  press  of  life  are  real 
men,  "  whose  fame  is  not  bought  nor  sold  at  the 
stroke  of  a  politician's  pen."  Such  are  the  men  in 
whose  guidance  the  currents  of  history  flow. 

The  lesson  of  values  in  life  it  should  be  yours 
to  teach,  because  it  should  be  yours  to  know  and 
to  act.  Men  are  better  than  they  seem,  and  the 
hidden  virtues  of  life  appear  when  men  have 
learned  how  to  translate  them  into  action.  Men 
grasp  and  hoard  material  things  because  in  their 
poverty  of  soul  they  know  of  nothing  else  to  do. 
It  is  lack  of  training  and  lack  of  imagination, 
rather  than  total  depravity,  which  gives  our  social 
life  its  sordid  aspect.  When  a  plant  has  learned 
the  secret  of  flowers  and  fruit,  it  no  longer  goes 
on  adding  meaningless  leaf  on  leaf.  And  as 


MAN'S  WILL  A  FACTOR   IN   THE    UNIVERSE.    277 

"flowers  are  only  colored  leaves,  fruits  only  ripe 
ones,"  so  are  the  virtues  only  perfected  and  ripened 
forms  of  those  impulses  which  show  themselves 
as  vices. 

It  is  your  relation  to  the  overflow  of  power  that 
determines  the  manner  of  man  you  are.  Slave  or 
god,  it  is  for  you  to  choose.  Slave  or  god,  it  is  for 
you  to  will.  It  is  for  such  choice  that  will  is  devel 
oped.  Say  what  we  may  about  the  limitations  of 
the  life  of  man,  they  are  largely  self-limitations. 
Hemmed  in  is  human  life  by  the  force  of  the  Fates; 
but  the  will  of  man  is  one  of  the  Fates,  and  can 
take  its  place  by  the  side  of  the  rest  of  them.  The 
man  who  can  will  is  a  factor  in  the  universe.  Only 
the  man  who  can  will  can  serve  the  Lord  at  all, 
and  by  the  same  token,  hoping  for  no  reward. 

Likewise  is  love  a  factor  in  the  universe.  Power 
is  not  strength  of  body  or  mind  alone.  One  who 
is  poor  in  all  else,  may  be  rich  in  sympathy  and 
responsiveness.  "  They  also  serve  who  only  stand 
and  wait." 

In  a  recent  number  of  The  Dial,  Mr.  W.  P.  Reeves 
tells  us  the  tale,  half-humorous,  half-allegorical,  of 
the  decadence  of  a  scholar.  According  to  this  story, 
one  Thomson  was  a  college  graduate,  full  of  high 
notions  of  the  significance  of  life  and  the  duties 


278  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

and  privileges  of  the  scholar.  With  these  ideals 
he  went  to  Germany,  that  he  might  strengthen 
them  and  use  them  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellow- 
men.  He  spent  some  years  in  Germany,  filling 
his  mind  with  all  that  German  philosophy  could 
give.  Then  he  came  home,  to  turn  his  philosophy 
into  action.  To  do  this,  he  sought  a  college  profes 
sorship. 

This  he  found  it  was  not  easy  to  secure.  Nobody 
cared  for  him  or  his  message.  The  authority  of 
"  wise  and  sober  Germany "  was  not  recognized  in 
the  institutions  of  America,  and  he  found  that 
college  professorships  were  no  longer  "  plums  to  be 
picked  "  by  whomsoever  should  ask  for  them.  The 
reverence  the  German  professor  commands  is  un 
known  in  America.  In  Germany,  the  authority 
of  wise  men  is  supreme.  Their  words,  when  they 
speak,  are  heard  with  reverence  and  attention.  In 
America,  wisdom  is  not  wisdom  till  the  common 
man  has  examined  it  and  pronounced  it  to  be  such. 
The  conclusions  of  the  scholar  are  revised  by  the 
daily  newspaper.  The  readers  of  these  papers  care 
little  for  messages  from  Utopia. 

No  college  opened  its  doors  to  Thomson,  and  he 
saw  with  dismay  that  the  life  before  him  was  one 
of  discomfort  and  insignificance,  his  ideals  having 


THE    DECADENCE    OF   THOMSON.  279 

no  exchangeable  value  in  luxuries  or  comforts. 
Meanwhile,  Thomson's  early  associates  seemed  to 
get  on  somehow.  The  world  wanted  their  cheap 
achievements,  though  it  did  not  care  for  him. 

Among  these  associates  was  one  Wilcox,  who 
became  a  politician,  and,  though  small  in  abilities 
and  poor  in  virtues,  his  influence  among  men 
seemed  to  be  unbounded.  The  young  woman  who 
had  felt  an  interest  in  Thomson's  development,  and 
to  whom  he  had  read  his  rejected  verses  and  his 
uncalled-for  philosophy,  had  joined  herself  to  the 
Philistines,  and  yielded  to  their  influence.  She 
had  become  Wilcox's  wife.  His  friends  regarded 
Thomson's  failure  as  a  joke.  He  must  not  take 
himself  too  seriously,  they  said.  A  man  should  be 
in  touch  with  his  times.  "Even  Philistia,"  one 
said,  "has  its  aBsthetic  ritual  and  pageantry."  A 
wise  man  will  not  despise  this  ritual,  because  Phi 
listinism,  after  all,  is  the  life  of  the  world. 

But  Thomson  held  out.  "  I  pledged  my  word  in 
Germany,"  he  said,  "  to  teach  nothing  that  I  did  not 
believe  to  be  true.  I  must  live  up  to  this  pledge." 
And  so  he  sought  for  positions,  and  he  failed  to  find 
them.  Finally,  he  had  a  message  from  a  friend 
that  a  professorship  in  a  certain  institution  was 
vacant.  This  message  said,  "Cultivate  Wilcox." 


280  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

So,  in  despair,  Thomson  began  to  cultivate  Wilcox. 
He  began  to  feel  that  Wilcox  was  a  type  of  the 
world,  a  bad  world,  for  which  he  was  not  responsi 
ble.  The  world's  servant  he  must  be,  if  he  received 
its  wages.  When  he  secured  the  coveted  appoint 
ment,  through  the  political  pull  of  Wilcox  and  the 
mild  kindness  of  Mrs.  Wilcox,  he  was  ready  to 
teach  whatever  was  wanted  of  him,  whether  it  was 
truth  in  Germany  or  not.  He  found  that  he  could 
change  his  notions  of  truth.  The  Wilcox  idea  was 
that  everything  in  America  is  all  right  just  as  it  is. 
To  this  he  found  it  easy  to  respond.  His  salary 
helped  him  to  do  so.  And  at  last,  the  record  says, 
he  became  "  laudator  temporis  acti"  one  who  praises 
the  times  that  are  past.  As  such,  he  took  but  little 
part  in  the  times  that  are  to  be. 

So  runs  the  allegory.  How  shall  it  be  with 
you?  There  are  many  Thomsons  among  our 
scholars.  There  may  be  some  such  among  you. 
When  you  pass  from  the  world  of  thought  you 
will  find  yourself  in  the  world  of  action.  The 
conditions  are  not  changed,  but  they  seem  to  be 
changed.  How  shall  you  respond  to  the  seem 
ing  difference?  Shall  you  give  up  the  truth  of 
high  thinking  for  the  appearance  of  speedy  suc 
cess?  If  you  do  this,  it  will  not  be  because  you 


CHARACTER    AS    "MADE    IN    GERMANY."     281 

are  worldly-wise,  but  because  you  do  not  know  the 
world.  In  your  ignorance  of  men  you  may  sell 
yourself  cheaply. 

One  must  know  life  before  he  can  know  truth. 
He  who  will  be  a  leader  of  men  must  first  have  the 
power  to  lead  himself.  The  world  is  selfish  and 
unsympathetic.  But  it  is  also  sagacious.  It  rejects 
as  worthless  him  who  suffers  decadence  when  he 
comes  in  contact  with  its  vulgar  cleverness.  The 
natural  man  can  look  the  world  in  the  face.  The 
true  man  will  teach  truth  wherever  he  is, —  not 
because  he  has  pledged  himself  in  Germany  not  to 
teach  anything  else,  but  because  in  teaching  truth 
he  is  teaching  himself.  His  life  thus  becomes  gen 
uine,  and,  sooner  or  later,  the  world  will  respond  to 
genuineness  in  action.  The  world  knows  the  value 
of  genuineness,  and  it  yields  to  that  force  wherever 
it  is  felt.  "  The  world  is  all  gates,"  says  Emerson, 
"all  opportunities,  strings  of  tension  waiting  to  be 
struck." 

Thus,  in  the  decadence  of  Thomson,  it  was  not 
the  times  or  the  world  or  America  that  was  at  fault; 
it  was  Thomson  himself.  He  had  in  him  no  life  of 
his  own.  His  character,  like  his  microscope,  "  was 
made  in  Germany,"  and  bore  not  his  mark,  but  the 
stamp  of  the  German  factory.  Truth  was  not  made 


282  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

in  Germany;  and  to  know  or  to  teach  truth  there 
must  be  a  life  behind  it.  The  decadence  of  Thom 
son  was  the  appearance  of  the  real  Thomson  from 
under  the  axioms  and  formulae  his  teachers  had 
given  him. 

Men  do  not  fail  because  they  are  human.  They 
are  not  human  enough.  Failure  comes  from  lack 
of  life.  Only  the  man  who  has  formed  opinions 
of  his  own  can  have  the  courage  of  his  convic 
tions.  Learning  alone  does  not  make  a  man  strong. 
Strength  in  life  will  show  itself  in  helpfulness,  will 
show  itself  in  sympathy,  in  sacrifice.  "  Great  men," 
says  Emerson,  "  feel  that  they  are  so  by  renounc 
ing  their  selfishness  and  falling  back  on  what  is 
humane.  They  beat  with  the  pulse  and  breathe 
with  the  lungs  of  nations." 

It  is  not  enough  to  know  truth;  one  must  know 
men.  It  is  not  enough  to  know  men;  one  must  be 
a  man.  Only  he  who  can  live  truth  can  know  it. 
Only  he  who  can  live  truth  can  teach  it.  "  He 
could  talk  men  over,"  says  Carlyle  of  Mirabeau, 
"  he  could  talk  men  over  because  he  could  act  men 
over.  At  bottom  that  was  it." 

And  at  bottom  this  is  the  source  of  all  power 
and  service.  Not  what  a  man  knows,  or  what  he 
can  say;  but  what  is  he?  what  can  he  can  do? 


"ENDLESS    DIRGES    TO    DECAY."  283 

Not  what  he  can  do  for  his  board  and  lodging,  as 
the  slave  who  is  "  hired  for  life" ;  but  what  can  he 
do  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  resources,  the  fullness 
of  his  helpfulness,  the  fullness  of  himself?  The 
work  the  world  will  not  let  die  was  never  paid  for  — 
not  in  fame,  not  in  money,  not  in  power. 

The  decadence  of  literature,  of  which  much  is 
said  to-day,  is  not  due  to  the  decadence  of  man. 
It  is  not  the  effect  of  the  nerve  strain  of  over 
wrought  generations  born  too  late  in  the  dusk  of 
the  ages.  Its  nature  is  this — that  uncritical  and 
untrained  men  have  come  into  a  heritage  they 
have  not  earned.  They  will  pay  money  to  have 
their  feeble  fancy  tickled.  The  decadence  of  liter 
ature  is  the  struggle  of  mountebanks  to  catch  the 
public  eye.  There  is  money  in  the  literature  of 
decay,  and  those  who  work  for  money  have  "  verily 
their  reward."  But  these  performances  are  not  the 
work  of  men.  They  have  no  relation  to  literature, 
or  art,  or  human  life.  These  are  not  in  decadence 
because  imitations  are  sold  on  street-corners  or 
tossed  into  our  laps  on  railway  trains.  As  well  say 
that  gold  is  in  its  decadence  because  brass  can  be 
burnished  to  look  like  it ;  or  that  the  sun  is  in  his 
dotage  because  we  have  filled  our  gardens  with 
Chinese  lanterns. 


284  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

"  No  ray  is  dimmed,  no  atom  worn, 
My  oldest  force  is  good  as  new 
And  the  fresh  rose  on  yonder  thorn 

Gives  back  the  bending  heavens  in  dew." 

Literature  has  never  been  paid  for.  It  has  never 
asked  the  gold  nor  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude. 
Job,  and  Hamlet,  and  Faust,  and  Lear,  were  never 
written  to  fill  the  pages  of  a  Sunday  newspaper. 
John  Milton  and  John  Bunyan  were  not  publish 
ers'  hacks ;  nor  were  John  Hampden,  John  Bright, 
or  Samuel  Adams  under  pay  as  walking-delegates 
of  reform. 

No  man  was  hired  to  find  out  that  the  world  was 
round,  or  that  the  valleys  are  worn  down  by  water, 
or  that  the  stars  are  suns.  No  man  was  paid  to 
burn  at  the  stake  or  die  on  the  cross  that  other 
men  might  be  free  to  live.  The  sane,  strong,  brave, 
heroic  souls  of  all  ages  were  the  men  who,  in  the 
natural  order  of  things,  have  lived  above  all  con 
siderations  of  pay  or  glory.  They  have  served 
not  as  slaves  hoping  for  reward,  but  as  gods  who 
would  take  no  reward.  Men  could  not  reward 
Shakespeare,  or  Darwin,  or  Newton,  or  Helmholtz 
for  their1  services  any  more  than  we  could  pay  the 
Lord  for  the  use  of  His  sunshine.  From  the  same 
inexhaustible  divine  reservoir  it  all  comes — the 
service  of  the  great  man  and  the  sunshine  of  God. 


"ROOM    FOR    THE    MAN    OF   FORCE."          285 

"Twice  have  I  molded  an  image, 

And  thrice  outstretched  my  hand ; 
Made  one  of  day  and  one  of  night, 

And  one  of  the  salt  sea  strand  • 
One  in  a  Judean  manger, 

And  one  by  Avon's  stream  ; 
One  over  against  the  mouths  of  Nile, 

And  one  in  the  Academe." 

And  in  such  image  are  men  made  every  day,  not 
only  in  Bethlehem  or  in  Stratford,  not  alone  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile  or  the  Arno ;  but  on  the  Colum 
bia,  or  the  Sacramento,  or  the  San  Francisquito,  it 
may  be,  as  well.  All  over  the  earth,  in  this  image, 
are  the  sane,  and  the  sound,  and  the  true.  And 
when  and  where  their  lives  are  spent  arises  gen 
erations  of  others  like  them,  men  in  the  true  order. 
Not  alone  men  in  the  "  image  of  God,"  but  "  gods 
in  the  likeness  of  men." 

It  is  to  the  training  of  the  genuine  man  that  the 
universities  of  the  world  are  devoted.  They  call  for 
the  higher  sacrifice,  the  sacrifice  of  those  who  have 
powers  not  needed  in  the  common  struggle  of  life, 
and  who  have,  therefore,  something  over  and  be 
yond  this  struggle  to  give  to  their  fellows.  Large 
or  small,  whatever  the  gift  may  be,  the  world  needs 
it  all,  and  to  every  good  gift  the  world  will  respond 
a  thousand-fold.  Strength  begets  strength,  and 
wisdom  leads  to  wisdom.  "  There  is  always  room 


286  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE, 

for  the  man  of  force,  and  he  makes  room  for  many." 
It  is  the  strong,  wise,  and  good  of  the  past  who 
have  made  our  lives  possible.  It  is  the  great  hu 
man  men,  the  "men  in  the  natural  order,"  that 
have  made  it  possible  for  "  the  plain,  common 
men,"  that  make  up  civilization,  to  live,  rather 
than  merely  to  vegetate. 

We  hear  those  among  us  sometimes  who  com 
plain  of  the  shortness  of  life,  the  smallness  of  truth, 
the  limited  stage  on  which  man  is  forced  to  act. 
But  the  men  who  thus  complain  are  not  men  who 
have  filled  this  little  stage  with  their  action.  The 
man  who  has  learned  to  serve  the  Lord  never  com 
plains  that  his  Master  does  not  give  him  enough  to 
do.  The  man  who  helps  his  fellow-men  does  not 
stand  about  with  idle  hands  to  find  men  worthy  of 
his  assistance.  He  who  leads  a  worthy  life  never 
vexes  himself  with  the  question  as  to  whether  life 
is  worth  living. 

We  know  that  all  our  powers  are  products  of  the 
needs  and  duties  of  our  ancestors.  Wisdom  too 
great  to  be  translated  into  action  is  an  absurdity. 
For  wisdom  is  only  knowing  what  it  is  best  to  do 
next.  Virtue  is  only  doing  it.  Virtue  and  happi 
ness  have  never  been  far  apart  from  each  other. 
To  know  and  to  do  is  the  essence  of  the  highest 


THE    STAMP    OF   IGNORANCE.  287 

service.  Those  the  world  has  a  right  to  honor  are 
those  who  found  enough  in  the  world  to  do.  The 
fields  are  always  white  to  their  harvest. 

Alexander  the  Great  had  conquered  his  neigh 
bors  in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor,  the  only  world  he 
knew.  Then  he  sighed  for  more  worlds  to  con 
quer.  But  other  worlds  he  knew  nothing  of  lay 
all  about  him.  The  secrets  of  the  rocks  he  had 
never  suspected.  Steam,  electricity,  the  growth  of 
trees,  the  fall  of  snow, —  all  these  were  mysteries 
to  him.  The  only  conquest  he  knew,  the  subjec 
tion  of  men's  bodies,  went  but  a  little  way.  All 
the  men  who  in  his  lifetime  knew  the  name  of 
Alexander  the  Great  could  find  encampment  on 
the  Palo  Alto  farm.  The  great  world  of  men  in 
his  day  was  beyond  his  knowledge.  His  world 
was  a  very  small  one,  and  of  this  he  had  seen  but 
a  little  corner. 

For  the  need  of  more  worlds  to  conquer  is  no 
badge  of  strength.  It  is  the  stamp  of  ignorance. 
It  is  the  cry  only  of  him  who  knows  that  the 
great  earth  about  him  still  stands  unconquered. 
No  Lincoln  ever  sighed  for  more  nations  to  save; 
no  Luther  for  more  churches  to  purify;  no  Dar 
win  that  nature  had  not  more  hidden  secrets  which 
he  might  follow  to  their  depths ;  no  Agassiz  that 


288  THE    HIGHER    SACRIFICE. 

the  thoughts  of  God  were  all  exhausted  before  he 
was  born. 

And  now,  a  final  word  to  you  as  scholars: 
Higher  education  means  the  higher  sacrifice. 
That  you  are  taught  to  know  is  simply  that  you 
may  do.  Knowing  the  truth  signifies  that  you 
should  do  right.  Knowing  and  doing  have  value 
only  as  translated  into  justice  and  love.  There 
is  no  man  so  strong  as  not  to  need  your  help. 
There  is  no  man  so  weak  that  you  cannot  make 
him  stronger.  There  is  none  so  sick  that  you 
cannot  bring  him  to  the  "gate  called  Beautiful." 
There  is  no  evil  in  the  world  that  you  cannot 
help  turn  to  goodness.  "We  could  lift  up  this 
land,"  said  Bjornson  of  Norway,  "we  could  lift  up 
this  land,  if  we  lifted  as  one." 

Therefore  lift,  and  lift  as  one.  You  are  strong 
enough  and  wise  enough.  You  shall  seek  strength 
and  wisdom,  that  others  through  you  may  be  wiser 
and  stronger.  You  shall  seek  your  place  to  work 
as  your  basis  for  helpfulness.  Others  will  make 
the  place  as  good  as  you  deserve.  If  your  lives  are 
sacrificed  in  helping  men,  it  is  to  the  market  of 
the  ages  you  carry  your  blood,  not  to  the  milk- 
market  of  Concord  town.  The  honest  man  will  not 


THE    DEMAND    FOE    MEN.  289 

"pledge  himself  in  Germany  to  teach  nothing 
which  is  not  true."  Being  true  himself,  he  can 
teach  nothing  false.  The  more  men  of  the  true 
order  there  are  in  the  world,  the  greater  is  the 
world's  need  of  men. 

As  you  are  men,  so  will  your  places  in  life  be 
secure.  Every  profession  is  calling  you.  Every 
walk  of  life  is  waiting  for  your  effort.  There  will 
always  be  room  for  you,  and  each  of  you  will  make 
room  for  many. 


THE    BUBBLES    OF   SAKI. 


THE  BUBBLES  OF  SAKI. 

'N  sad,  sweet  cadence  Persian  Omar  sings 
The  life  of  man  that  lasts  but  for  a  day; 
A  phantom  caravan  that  hastes  away. 
On  to  the  chaos  of  insensate  things. 


i 


"  The  Eternal  Sdkifrom  that  bowl  hath  poured 
Millions  of  bubbles  like  us  and  shall  pour" 
Thy  life  or  mine,  a  half -unspoken  word, 
A  fleck  of  foam  tossed  on  an  unknown  shore. 

"  When  thou  and  I  behind  the  veil  are  past, 
Oh,  but  the  long,  long  while  the  world  shall  last ! 
Which  of  our  coming  and  departure  heeds, 
As  the  seven  seas  shall  heed  a  pebble  cast." 

"  Then,  my  beloved,  fill  the  cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  regrets  and  future  fears." 
This  is  the  only  wisdom  man  can  know, 
"  I  come  like  water,  and  like  wind  I  go" 

But  tell  me,  Omar,  hast  thou  said  the  whole? 
If  such  the  bubbles  that  fill  Sdki's  bowl, 


294  THE    BUBBLES    OF   SAKI. 

How  great  is  Sdki,  whose  least  whisper  calls 
Forth  from  the  swirling  mists  a  human  soul! 

Omar,  one  word  of  thine  is  but  a  breath, 
A  single  cadence  in  thy  perfect  song; 
And  as  its  measures  softly  flow  along, 
A  million  cadences  pass  on  to  death. 

Shall  this  one  word  withdraw  itself  in  scorn, 
Because  't  is  not  thy  first,  nor  last,  nor  all — 
Because  't  is  not  the  sole  breath  thou  hast  drawn, 
Nor  yet  the  sweetest  from  thy  lips  let  fall  f 

I  do  rejoice  that  when  "  of  Me  and  Thee  " 
Men  talk  no  longer,  yet  not  less,  but  more, 
The  Eternal  Sdki  still  that  bowl  shall  fill, 
And  ever  stronger,  purer  bubbles  pour. 

One  little  note  in  the  Eternal  Song, 
The  Perfect  Singer  hath  made  place  for  me; 
And  not  one  atom  in  earth's  wondrous  throng 
But  shall  be  needful  to  Infinity. 


LD  ai-100m-7,'33 


YC   16077 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


